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THE   WORKS 

OF 

ALFRED    LORD   TENNYSON 
IN    SIX  VOLUMES 


VOLUME  VI 


■>^ 


•The: 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON    ■    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  WORKS   OF 
ALFRED 

LORD  TENNYSON 

VOLUME  VI 


ANNOTATED   BY 
ALFRED   LORD   TENNYSON 

EDITED    BY 
HALLAM   LORD   TENNYSON 


/8n  0 


Neiri  ^axk 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1908 

All  rights  reserved 


711  CLX  ,  I06S 


Copyright,  1893, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 

Copyright,  1907,  1908, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.  Published  May,  1893.  Reprinted 
February,  1894.  New  edition  in  six  volumes,  September,  1896. 
New  edition,  October,  1899:  September,  1903. 

New  edition,  with  author's  notes,  November,  1908. 


NotiDOOD  llrtBS 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


?  K 

5  5    0 

yo<^ 

v>  W 

coa^. 

CONTENTS   OF   VOLUME   VI 

Becket I 

The  Falcon 219 

The  Foresters 261 

APPENDIX  — 

Unpublished  Sonnet 427 

NOTES 429 


BECKET. 


TO  THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR, 

Z\)t  Eight  ^onouratle  CHarl  of  Sclborne. 

MV  DEAR  SELBORNE, 

To  you,  the  honom-ed  Chancellor  of  our  own 
day,  I  dedicate  this  dramatic  memorial  of  xour  great 
predecessor  ; — 7ohich,  alth o '  not_in.tejid£.d  iji  its  present 
fortn  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  our  modern  theatre, 
has  nevertheless — for  so  you  have  assured  me — won 
your  approbation. 

Ever  yours, 

TENNYSON. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONM. 

Henry  II.  {son  of  the  Earl  of  Anjou). 

Thomas    Becket,    Chancellor  of  England,   afterwards   Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury. 
Gilbert  Foliot,  Bishop  of  London. 
Roger,  Archbishop  of  York. 
Bishop  of  Hereford. 
Hilary,  Bishop  of  Chichester. 
Jocelyn,  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 

John  of  Salisbury     -»  ^  .      ,     ^  „    , 
„  ^  \  friends  of  Becket. 

Herbert  of  Bosham  y  •' 

Walter  Map,  reputed  author  of  '  Golias,   Latin  poems  against 

the  priesthood. 
King  Louis  of  Fr.a.nce. 
Geoffrey,  son  of  Rosamund  and  Henry. 
Grim,  a  monk  of  Cambridge. 
Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse    ^ 

Sir  Richard  de  Brito      \the    four  knights  of   the  King's 
Sir  William  de  Tracy     ''      household,  enemies  of  Becket. 
Sir  Hugh  de  Morville  . 
De  Broc  of  Saltwood  Castle. 
Lord  Leicester. 
Philip  de  Eleemosyna. 
Two  Knight  Templars. 
John  of  Oxford  {called  the  Swear er"). 
Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Queen  of  England  {divorced  from 

Louis  of  France^. 
Rosamund  de  Clifford. 
Margery. 

Knights,  Monks,  Beggars,  etc. 


BECKET. 

PROLOGUE. 

A  Castle  in  Normandy.     Inferior  of  the  Hall.     Roofs 
of  a  City  seen  thro'  Windows. 

Henry  and  Becket  at  chess. 

Henry. 

So  then  our  good  Archbishop  Theobald 
Lies  dying. 

Becket. 

I  am  grieved  to  know  as  much. 

Henry. 

But  we  must  have  a  mightier  man  than  he 
For  his  successor. 

Becket. 

Have  you  thought  of  one? 
5 


BE  CKE  T.  PROLOGUE. 


Henry. 


A  cleric  lately  poison'd  his  own  mother, 
And  being  brought  before  the  courts  of  the  Church, 
They  but  degraded  him**    I  hope  they  whipt  him. 
I  would  have  hang'd  him. 

BUCKET.  . 

It  is  your  move. 

Henry. 

Well — there.     \Moves. 
The  Church  in  the  pell-mell  of  Stephen's  time 
Hath   climb'd   the   throne   and   almost   clutch'd   the 

crown ; 
But  by  the  royal  customs  of  our  realm 
The  Church  should  hold  her  baronies  of  me, 
Like  other  lords  amenable  to  law. 
I'll  have  them  written  down  and  made  the  law. 

Becket. 
My  liege,  I  move  my  bishop. 

Henry. 

And  if  I  live, 
No  man  without  my  leave  shall  excommunicate 
My  tenants  or  my  household. 


PROLOGUE.  BE  CKE  T. 

Becket. 

Look  to  your  king. 

Henry. 

No  man  without  my  leave  shall  cross  the  seas 
To  set  the  Pope  against  me — I  pray  your  pardon. 


Becket. 

Well- 

-vnW 

you 

move? 

Henry. 
There. 

Becket. 

'Moves. 

Check- 

-you 

move 

so  wildly. 

Henry. 
There  then  !  \_Moves. 

Becket. 

Why — there  then,  for  you  see  my  bishop 
Hath   brought  your   king   to   a   standstill.     You   are 
beaten. 

Henry  (^kicks  over  the  board). 

Why,  there  then — down  go  bishop  and  king  together. 
I  loathe  being  beaten ;  had  I  fixt  my  fancy 


BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 


Upon  the  game  I  should  have  beaten  thee, 
But  that  was  vagabond. 

Becket. 

Where,  my  liege  ?    With  Phryne, 
Or  Lais,  or  thy  Rosamund,  or  another? 

Henry. 

My  Rosamund  is  no  Lais,  Thomas  Becket ; 

And  yet  she  plagues  me  too— no  fault  in  her 

But  that  I  fear  the  Queen  would  have  her  life. 

Becket. 

Put  her  away,  put  her  away,  my  liege  ! 

Put  her  away  into  a  nunnery  ! 

Safe  enough  there  from  her  to  whom  thou  art  bound 

By  Holy  Church.     And  wherefore  should  she  seek 

The  Hfe  of  Rosamund  de  Clifford  more 

Than  that  of  other  paramours  of  thine  ? 

Henry. 
How  dost  thou  know  I  am  not  wedded  to  her? 

Becket. 
How  should  I  know  ? 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  9 

Henry. 

That  is  my  secret,  Thomas. 

Becket. 

State  secrets  should  be  patent  to  the  statesman 
Who  serves  and  loves  his  king,  and  whom  the  king 
Loves  not  as  statesman,  but  true  lover  and  friend. 

Henry. 

Come,  come,  thou  art  but  deacon,  not  yet  bishop. 
No,  nor  archbishop,  nor  my  confessor  yet. 
I  would  to  God  thou  wert,  for  I  should  find 
An  easy  father  confessor  in  thee. 

Becket. 

St.  Denis,  that  thou  shouldst  not.     I  should  beat 
Thy  kingship  as  my  bishop  hath  beaten  it, 

Henry. 

Hell  take  thy  bishop  then,  and  my  kingship  too  ! 

Come,  come,  I  love  thee  and  I  know  thee,  I  know  thee, 

A  doter  on  white  pheasant-flesh  at  feasts, 

A  sauce-deviser  for  thy  days  of  fish, 

A  dish-designer,  and  most  amorous 

Of  good  old  red  sound  liberal  Gascon  wine  : 

Will  not  thy  body  rebel,  man,  if  thou  flatter  it  ? 


lo  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

Becket. 

That  palate  is  insane  which  cannot  tell 

A  good  dish  from  a  bad,  new  wine  from  old. 

Henry. 

Well,  who  loves  wine  loves  woman. 

Becket. 

So  I  do. 
Men  are  God's  trees,  and  women  are  God's  flowers ; 
And  when  the  Gascon  wine  mounts  to  my  head, 
The  trees  are  all  the  statelier,  and  the  flowers 
Are  all  the  fairer. 

Henry. 

And  thy  thoughts,  thy  fancies? 

Becket. 

Good  dogs,  my  liege,  well  train'd,  and  easily  call'd 
Ofl"  from  the  game. 

Henry. 

Save  for  some  once  or  twice, 
When  they  ran  down  the  game  and  worried  it. 

Becket. 
No,  my  Hege,  no  ! — not  once — in  God's  name,  no  ! 


prologue.  becket.  ii 

Henry. 

Nay,  then,  I  take  thee  at  thy  word — believe  thee 

The  veriest  Galahad  of  old  Arthur's  hall. 

And  so  this  Rosamund,  my  true  heart-wife. 

Not  Eleanor — she  whom  I  love  indeed 

As  a  woman  should  be  loved — Why  dost  thou  smile 

So  dolorously? 

Becket. 

My  good  liege,  if  a  man 
Wastes  himself  among  women,  how  should  he  love 
A  woman,  as  a  woman  should  be  loved  ? 

Henry. 

How  shouldst  thou  know  that  never  hast  loved  one  ? 
Come,  I  would  give  her  to  thy  care  in  England 
When  I  am  out  in  Normandy  or  Anjou. 


Becket. 
My  lord,  I  am  your  subject,  not  your- 

Henry. 


Pander. 
God's  eyes  !  I  know  all  that— not  my  purveyor 
Of  pleasures,  but  to  save  a  life— her  life  ; 
Ay,  and  the  soul  of  Eleanor  from  hell-fire. 


12  BECKET.  PROLOGUE, 

I  have  built  a  secret  bower  in  England,  Thomas, 
A  nest  in  a  bush. 

Becket. 
And  where,  my  liege? 

Henry  {whispers). 

Thine  ear. 

Becket. 
That's  lone  enough. 

Henry  {laying paper  on  table'). 

This  chart  here  mark'd  'Her  Bower,* 
Take,  keep  it,  friend.     See,  first,  a  circling  wood, 
A  hundred  pathways  running  everyway, 
And  then  a  brook,  a  bridge ;  and  after  that 
This  labyrinthine  brickwork  maze  in  maze, 
And  then  another  wood,  and  in  the  midst 
A  garden  and  my  Rosamund.     Look,  this  Hne — 
The  rest  you  see  is  colour'd  green — but  this 
Draws  thro'  the  chart  to  her. 

Becket. 

This  blood-red  line? 

Henry. 
Ay  !  blood,  perchance,  except  thou  see  to  her. 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  13 

Becket. 
And  where  is  she?    There  in  her  English  nest? 

Henry. 

Would  God  she  were — no,  here  within  the  city. 
We  take  her  from  her  secret  bower  in  Anjou 
And  pass  her  to  her  secret  bower  in  England. 
She  is  ignorant  of  all  but  that  I  love  her. 

Becket. 

My  liege,  I  pray  thee  let  me  hence  :  a  widow 

And  orphan  child,  whom  one  of  thy  wild  barons 

Henry. 
Ay,  ay,  but  swear  to  see  to  her  in  England. 

Becket. 
Well,  well,  I  swear,  but  not  to  please  myself. 

Henry. 
Whatever  come  between  us? 

Becket. 

What  should  come 
Between  us,  Henry  ? 


14  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

Henry. 

Nay — I  know  not,  Thomas. 

Becket. 

What  need  then  ?    Well — whatever  come  between  us. 

[  Going. 

Henry. 

A  moment !  thou  didst  help  me  to  my  throne 

In  Theobald's  time,  and  after  by  thy  wisdom 

Hast  kept  it  firm  from  shaking ;  but  now  I, 

For  my  realm's  sake,  myself  must  be  the  wizard 

To  raise  that  tempest  which  will  set  it  trembling 

Only  to  base  it  deeper.     I,  true  son 

Of  Holy  Church — no  croucher  to  the  Gregories 

That  tread  the  kings  their  children  underheel — 

Must  curb  her ;  and  the  Holy  Father,  while 

This  Barbarossa  butts  him  from  his  chair, 

Will  need  my  help — be  facile  to  my  hands. 

Now  is  my  time.     Yet — lest  there  should  be  flashes 

And  fulminations  from  the  side  of  Rome, 

An  interdict  on  England — I  will  have 

My  young  son  Henry  crown'd  the  King  of  England, 

That  so  the  Papal  bolt  may  pass  by  England, 

As  seeming  his,  not  mine,  and  fall  abroad. 

I'll  have  it  done — and  now. 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  15 

Becket. 

Surely  too  young 
Even  for  this  shadow  of  a  crown ;  and  tho' 
I  love  him  heartily,  I  can  spy  already 
A  strain  of  hard  and  headstrong  in  him.     Say, 
The  Queen  should  play  his  kingship  against  thine  ! 

Henry. 

I  will  not  think  so,  Thomas.     Who  shall  crown  him  ? 
Canterbury  is  dying. 

Becket. 

The  next  Canterbury. 

Henry. 
And  who  shall  he  be,  my  friend  Thomas  ?    Who  ? 

Becket. 
Name  him ;  the  Holy  Father  will  confirm  him. 

Henry  {lays  his  hand  on  Becket's  shoulder) . 

Here! 

Becket. 

Mock  me  not.     I  am  not  even  a  monk. 
Thy  jest — no  more.     Why — look — is  this  a  sleeve 
For  an  archbishop  ? 


i6  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

Henry. 

But  the  arm  within 
Is  Becket's,  who  hath  beaten  down  my  foes. 

Becket. 
A  soldier's,  not  a  spiritual  arm. 

Henry. 

I  lack  a  spiritual  soldier,  Thomas — 

A  man  of  this  world  and  the  next  to  boot. 

Becket. 
There's  Gilbert  Foliot. 

Henry. 

He  !  too  thin,  too  thin. 
Thou  art  the  man  to  fill  out  the  Church  robe ; 
Your  Foliot  fasts  and  fawns  too  much  for  me. 

Becket. 

Roger  of  York. 

Henry. 

Roger  is  Roger  of  York. 
King,  Church,  and  State  to  him  but  foils  wherein 
To  set  that  precious  jewel,  Roger  of  York. 
No. 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  1 7 

Becket. 
Henry  of  Winchester  ? 

Henry. 

Him  who  crown'd  Stephen — 
King  Stephen's  brother  !     No ;  too  royal  for  me. 
And  I'll  have  no  more  Anselms. 

Becket. 

Sire,  the  business 
Of  thy  whole  kingdom  waits  me  :  let  me  go. 

Henry. 
Answer  me  first. 

Becket. 

Then  for  thy  barren  jest 
Take  thou  mine  answer  in  bare  commonplace— 
Nolo  episcopari.    , 

Henry. 

Ay,  but  Nolo 
Archiepiscopari,  my  good  friend, 
Is  quite  another  matter. 

Becket. 

A  more  awful  one. 
Make  me  archbishop  !     Why,  my  liege,  I  know 

VOL.  VI.  c 


1 8  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

Some  three  or  four  poor  priests  a  thousand  times 
Fitter  for  this  grand  function.     Me  archbishop  ! 
God's  favour  and  king's  favour  might  so  clash 
That  thou  and  I That  were  a  jest  indeed  ! 

Henry. 
Thou  angerest  me,  man  ;  I  do  not  jest. 

Enter  Eleanor  a7id  Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse. 

Eleanor  {singing). 
Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done 


Henry  {to  Becket,  tvho  is  going). 
Thou  shalt  not  go.     I  have  not  ended  with  thee. 

Eleanor  {seeing  chart  on  table) . 
This  chart  with  the  red  line  !    her  bower  !    whose 
bower  ? 

Henry. 

The  chart  is  not  mine,  but  Becket's :  take  it, 
Thomas. 

Eleanor. 

Becket !  O — ay — and  these  chessmen  on  the  floor 
— the  king's  crown  broken  !  Becket  hath  beaten  thee 
again — and  thou  hast  kicked  down  the  board.  I  know 
thee  of  old. 


prologue,  becket.  19 

Henry. 
True  enough,  my  mind  was  set  upon  other  matters. 

Eleanor. 
What  matters  ?    State  matters  ?  love  matters  ? 

Henry. 
My  love  for  thee,  and  thine  for  me. 

Eleanor. 
Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 

The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done ; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 

And  over  and  gone  with  the  sun. 

Here ;  but   our  sun   in  Aquitaine  lasts   longer.     I 
would  I  were  in  Aquitaine  again— your  north  chills  me. 

Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
And  never  a  flower  at  the  close  ; 

Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
And  winter  again  and  the  snows. 

That  was  not  the  way  I  ended  it  first — but  unsymmetri- 
cally,  preposterously,  illogically,  out  of  passion,  with- 
out art — like  a  song  of  the  people.  Will  you  have  it? 
The  last  Parthian  shaft  of  a  forlorn  Cupid  at  the 
King's  left  breast,  and  all  left-handedness  and  under- 
handedness. 


£0  BECKET.  prologue. 

And  never  a  flower  at  the  close, 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
Not  over  and  gone  with  the  rose. 

True,  one  rose  will  outblossom  the  rest,  one  rose  in  a 
bower.  I  speak  after  my  fancies,  for  I  am  a  Trouba- 
dour, you  know,  and  won  the  violet  at  Toulouse  ;  but 
my  voice  is  harsh  here,  not  in  tune,  a  nightingale  out 
of  season :  for  marriage,  rose  or  no  rose,  has  killed 
the  golden  violet. 

Becket. 
Madam,  you  do  ill  to  scorn  wedded  love. 

Eleanor. 
So  I  do.  Louis  of  France  loved  me,  and  I  dreamed 
that  I  loved  Louis  of  France  :  and  I  loved  Henry  of 
England,  and  Henry  of  England  dreamed  that  he 
loved  me  ;  but  the  marriage-garland  withers  even  with 
the  putting  on,  the  bright  link  rusts  with  the  breath  of 
the  first  after-marriage  kiss,  the  harvest  moon  is  the 
ripening  of  the  harvest,  and  the  honeymoon  is  the  gall 
of  love  ;  he  dies  of  his  honeymoon.  I  could  pity  this 
poor  world  myself  that  it  is  no  better  ordered. 

Henry. 
Dead  is  he,  my  Queen?    What,  altogether?     Let 
me  swear  nay  to  that  by  this  cross  on  thy  neck.    God's 
eyes  !  what  a  lovely  cross  !  what  jewels  ! 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  21 

Eleanor. 

Doth  it  please  you?  Take  it  and  wear  it  on  that 
hard  heart  of  yours — there.  {_Gives  it  to  him. 

Henry  {putsitoii). 

On  this  left  breast  before  so  hard  a  heart, 
To  hide  the  scar  left  by  thy  Parthian  dart. 

Eleanor. 

Has  my  simple  song  set  you  jingling?  Nay,  if  I 
took  and  translated  that  hard  heart  into  our  Provengal 
facilities,  I  could  so  play  about  it  with  the  rhyme 

Henry. 

That  the  heart  were  lost  in  the   rhyme   and   the 
matter  in  the  metre.      May  we  not  pray  you,  Madam, 
to  spare  us  the  hardness  of  your  facility  ? 

Eleanor. 

The  wells  of  Castaly  are  not  wasted  upon  the  des- 
ert.    We  did  but  jest. 

Henry. 

There's  no  jest  on  the  brows  of  Herbert  there. 
What  is  it,  Herbert? 


22  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

Enter  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Herbert. 
My  liege,  the  good  Archbishop  is  no  more. 

Henry. 
Peace  to  his  soul ! 

Herbert. 

I  left  him  with  peace  on  his  face — that  sweet  other- 
world  smile,  which  will  be  reflected  in  the  spiritual 
body  among  the  angels.  But  he  longed  much  to  see 
your  Grace  and  the  Chancellor  ere  he  past,  and  his 
last  words  were  a  commendation  of  Thomas  Becket 
to  your  Grace  as  his  successor  in  the  archbishoprick. 

Henry. 
Ha,  Becket !  thou  rememberest  our  talk  ! 

Becket. 
My  heart  is  full  of  tears — I  have  no  answer. 

Henry. 

Well,  well,  old  men  must  die,  or  the  world  would 
grow  mouldy,  would  only  breed  the  past  again.  Come 
to  me  to-morrow.      Thou  hast  but  to  hold  out  thy 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  23 

hand.     Meanwhile  the  revenues  are  mine.     A-hawk- 
ing,  a-hawking  !     If  I  sit,  I  grow  fat. 

\_Leaps  over  the  table,  and  exit. 

Becket. 

He  did  prefer  me  to  the  chancellorship, 
Believing  I  should  ever  aid  the  Church — 
But  have  I  done  it?     He  commends  me  now 
From  out  his  grave  to  this  archbishoprick. 

Herbert. 
A  dead  man's  dying  wish  should  be  of  weight. 

Becket. 
His  should.     Come  with  me.     Let  me  learn  at  full 
The  manner  of  his  death,  and  all  he  said. 

\_Exeunt  Herbert  atid  Becket. 

Eleanor. 
Fitzurse,  that  chart  with  the  red  line — thou  sawest  it 
— her  bower. 

Fitzurse. 
Rosamund's? 

Eleanor. 
Ay — there  lies  the  secret  of  her  whereabouts,  and 
the  King  gave  it  to  his  Chancellor. 


24  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

FiTZURSE. 

To  this  son  of  a  London  merchant — how  your  Grace 
must  hate  him. 

Eleanor. 

Hate  him  ?  as  brave  a  soldier  as  Henry  and  a  good- 
Her  man  :  but  thou — dost  thou  love  this  Chancellor, 
that  thou  hast  sworn  a  voluntary  allegiance  to  him  ? 

FiTZURSE. 

Not  for  my  love  toward  him,  but  because  he  had  the 
love  of  the  King.  How  should  a  baron  love  a  beggar 
on  horseback,  with  the  retinue  of  three  kings  behind 
him,  outroyalling  royalty  ?  Besides,  he  holp  the  King 
to  break  down  our  castles,  for  the  which  I  hate  him. 

Eleanor. 

For  the  which  I  honour  him.  Statesman  not 
Churchman  he.  A  great  and  sound  policy  that :  I 
could  embrace  him  for  it :  you  could  not  see  the  King 
for  the  kinglings. 

FiTZURSE. 

Ay,  but  he  speaks  to  a  noble  as  tho'  he  were  a 
churl,  and  to  a  churl  as  if  he  were  a  noble. 

Eleanor. 
Pride  of  the  plebeian  ! 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  25 

FiTZURSE. 

And  this  plebeian  like  to  be  Archbishop  ! 

Eleanor. 

True,  and  I  have  an  inherited  loathing  of  these 
black  sheep  of  the  Papacy.  Archbishop  ?  I  can  see 
further  into  a  man  than  our  hot-headed  Henry,  and 
if  there  ever  come  feud  between  Church  and  Crown, 
and  I  do  not  then  charm  this  secret  out  of  our  loyal 
Thomas,  I  am  not  Eleanor. 

FiTZURSE. 

Last  night  I  followed  a  woman  in  the  city  here.  Her 
face  was  veiled,  but  the  back  methought  was  Rosamund 
— his  paramour,  thy  rival.     I  can  feel  for  thee. 

Eleanor. 

Thou  feel  for  me  ! — paramour — rival !  King  Louis 
had  no  paramours,  and  I  loved  him  none  the  more. 
Henry  had  many,  and  I  loved  him  none  the  less — now 
neither  more  nor  less— not  at  all ;  the  cup's  empty.  I 
would  she  were  but  his  paramour,  for  men  tire  of  their 
fancies  ;  but  I  fear  this  one  fancy  hath  taken  root,  and 
borne  blossom  too,  and  she,  whom  the  King  loves  in- 
deed, is  a  power  in  the  State.  Rival ! — ay,  and  when 
the  King  passes,  there  may  come  a  crash  and  embroil- 


26  BECKET.  PROLOGUE. 

ment  as  in  Stephen's  time ;  and  her  children — canst 
thou  not — that  secret  matter  which  would  heat  the 
King  against  thee  {whispers  him  a7id  he  starts).  Nay, 
that  is  safe  with  me  as  with  thyself :  but  canst  thou  not 
— thou  art  drowned  in  debt — thou  shalt  have  our  love, 
our  silence,  and  our  gold — canst  thou  not — if  thou 
light  upon  her — free  me  from  her? 

FiTZURSE. 

Well,  Madam,  I  have  loved  her  in  my  time. 

Eleanor. 

No,  my  bear,  thou  hast  not.  My  Courts  of  Love 
would  have  held  thee  guiltless  of  love — the  fine  attrac- 
tions and  repulses,  the  delicacies,  the  subtleties. 

FiTZURSE. 

Madam,  I  loved  according  to  the  main  purpose  and 
intent  of  nature. 

Eleanor. 

I  warrant  thee  !  thou  wouldst  hug  thy  Cupid  till  his 
ribs  cracked — enough  of  this.  Follow  me  this  Rosa- 
mund day  and  night,  whithersoever  she  goes  ;  track 
her,  if  thou  canst,  even  into  the  King's  lodging,  that 
I  may  {^clenches  her  fist) — may  at  least  have  my  cry 
against  him  and  her, — and  thou  in  thy  way  shouldst  be 


PROLOGUE.  BECKET.  27 

jealous  of  the  King,  for  thou  in  thy  way  didst  once, 
what  shall  I  call  it,  affect  her  thine  own  self. 

FiTZURSE. 

Ay,  but  the  young  colt  winced  and  whinnied  and 
flung  up  her  heels ;  and  then  the  King  came  honeying 
about  her,  and  this  Becket,  her  father's  friend,  like 
enough  staved  us  from  her. 

Eleanor. 
Us! 

FiTZURSE. 

Yea,  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  !  There  were  more  than 
I  buzzing  round  the  blossom — De  Tracy — even  that 
flint  De  Brito. 

Eleanor. 

Carry  her  off  among  you ;  run  in  upon  her  and 
devour  her,  one  and  all  of  you ;  make  her  as  hateful 
to  herself  and  to  the  King,  as  she  is  to  me. 

FiTZURSE. 

I  and  all  would  be  glad  to  wreak  our  spite  on  the 
rosefaced  minion  of  the  King,  and  bring  her  to  the 
level  of  the  dust,  so  that  the  King 

Eleanor. 
Let  her  eat  it  like  the  serpent,  and  be  driven  out 
of  her  paradise. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  —  Becket's  House  in  London.  Chajnber 
barely  furnished.  Becket  unrobing.  Herbert 
OF  BosHAM  and  Servant. 

Servant. 
Shall  I  not  help  your  lordship  to  your  rest? 

Becket. 

Friend,  am  I  so  much  better  than  thyself 
That  thou  shouldst  help  me  ?    Thou  art  wearied  out 
With  this  day's  work,  get  thee  to  thine  own  bed. 
Leave  me  with  Herbert,  friend.  \_Exit  Servant. 

Help  me  off,  Herbert,  with  this — and  this. 


Herbert. 

Was  not  the  people's  blessing  as  we  past 
Heart-comfort  and  a  balsam  to  thy  blood? 

28 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  29 

Becket. 

The  people  know  their  Church  a  tower  of  strength, 
A  bulwark  against  Throne  and  Baronage. 
Too  heavy  for  me,  this ;  off  with  it,  Herbert ! 

Herbert. 
Is  it  so  much  heavier  than  thy  Chancellor's  robe? 

Becket. 

No ;  but  the  Chancellor's  and  the  Archbishop's 
Together  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 

Herbert. 
Not  heavier  than  thine  armour  at  Thoulouse? 

Becket. 

0  Herbert,  Herbert,  in  my  chancellorship 

1  more  than  once  have  gone  against  the  Church. 

Herbert. 
To  please  the  King? 

Becket. 

Ay,  and  the  King  of  kings, 
Or  justice ;  for  it  seem'd  to  me  but  just 


30  BECKET.  act  i. 

The  Church  should  pay  her  scutage  hke  the  lords. 
But  hast  thou  heard  this  cry  of  Gilbert  Foliot 
That  I  am  not  the  man  to  be  your  Primate 
For  Henry  could  not  work  a  miracle — 
Make  an  Archbishop  of  a  soldier? 

Herbert. 

Ay, 

For  Gilbert  Foliot  held  himself  the  man. 

Becket. 

Am  I  the  man  ?     My  mother,  ere  she  bore  me, 
Dream'd  that  twelve  stars  fell  glittering  out  of  heaven 
Into  her  bosom. 

Herbert. 

Ay,  the  fire,  the  light, 
The  spirit  of  the  twelve  Apostles  enter'd 
Into  thy  making. 

Becket. 

And  when  I  was  a  child. 
The  Virgin,  in  a  vision  of  my  sleep. 
Gave  me  the  golden  keys  of  Paradise.     Dream, 
Or  prophecy,  that? 

Herbert. 
Well,  dream  and  prophecy  both. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  31 

Becket. 
And  when  I  was  of  Theobald's  household,  once — 
The  good  old  man  would  sometimes  have  his  jest — 
He  took  his  mitre  off,  and  set  it  on  me, 
And     said,    '  My   young    Archbishop — thou    wouldst 

make 
A  stately  Archbishop!'     Jest  or  prophecy  there? 

Herbert. 
Both,  Thomas,  both. 

Becket. 

Am  I  the  man  ?     That  rang 
Within  my  head  last  night,  and  when  I  slept 
Methought  I  stood  in  Canterbury  Minster, 
And  spake  to  the  Lord  God,  and  said,  'O  Lord, 
I  have  been  a  lover  of  wines,  and  delicate  meats. 
And  secular  splendours,  and  a  favourer 
Of  players,  and  a  courtier,  and  a  feeder 
Of  dogs  and  hawks,  and  apes,  and  lions,  and  lynxes. 
Am  /  the  man  ? '     And  the  Lord  answer'd  me, 
'Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more  the  man.' 
And  then  I  asked  again,  '  O  Lord  my  God, 
Henry  the  King  hath  been  my  friend,  my  brother, 
And  mine  uplifter  in  this  world,  and  chosen  me 
For  this  thy  great  archbishoprick,  believing 
That  I  should  go  against  the  Church  with  him, 


32  BECKE.T.  ACT  i. 

And  I  shall  go  against  him  with  the  Church, 
And  I  have  said  no  word  of  this  to  him  : 
Am  /the  man?'     And  the  Lord  answer'd  me, 
'Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more  the  man.' 
And  thereupon,  methought,  He  drew  toward  me, 
And  smote  me  down  upon  the  Minster  floor. 
I  fell. 

Herbert. 
God  make  not  thee,  but  thy  foes,  fall. 

Becket. 

I  fell.     Why  fall?    Why  did  He  smite  me ?    What? 
Shall  I  fall  off — to  please  the  King  once  more  ? 
Not  fight — tho'  somehow  traitor  to  the  King — 
My  truest  and  mine  utmost  for  the  Church? 

Herbert. 
Thou  canst  not  fall  that  way.     Let  traitor  be ; 
For  how  have  fought  thine  utmost  for  the  Church, 
Save  from  the  throne  of  thine  archbishoprick  ? 
And  how  been  made  Archbishop  hadst  thou  told  him, 
'  I  mean  to  fight  mine  utmost  for  the  Church, 
Against  the  King  ?  ' 

Becket. 

But  dost  thou  think  the  King 
Forced  mine  election? 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  33 

Herbert. 
I  do  think  the  King 
Was  potent  in  the  election,  and  why  not? 
Why  should  not  Heaven  have  so  inspired  the  King? 
Be  comforted.     Thou  art  the  man — be  thou 
A  mightier  Anselm. 

Becket. 

I  do  believe  thee,  then.     I  am  the  man. 

And  yet  I  seem  appall'd — on  such  a  sudden 

At  such  an  eagle-height  I  stand  and  see 

The  rift  that  runs  between  me  and  the  King. 

I  served  our  Theobald  well  when  I  was  with  him ; 

I  served  King  Henry  well  as  Chancellor ; 

I  am  his  no  more,  and  I  must  serve  the  Church. 

This  Canterbury  is  only  less  than  Rome, 

And  all  my  doubts  I  fling  from  me  like  dust, 

Winnow  and  scatter  all  scruples  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  puissance  of  the  warrior. 

And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Chancellor, 

And  all  the  heap'd  experiences  of  hfe, 

I  cast  upon  the  side  of  Canterbury — 

Our  holy  mother  Canterbury,  who  sits 

With  tatter'd  robes.     Laics  and  barons,  thro' 

The  random  gifts  of  careless  kings,  have  graspt 

Her  livings,  her  advowsons,  granges,  farms, 

VOL.    VI.  D 


34  BECKET.  act  i. 

And  goodly  acres — we  will  make  her  whole ; 
Not  one  rood  lost.     And  for  these  Royal  customs, 
These  ancient  Royal  customs — they  a?-e  Royal, 
Not  of  the  Church — and  let  them  be  anathema, 
And  all  that  speak  for  them  anathema. 

Herbert. 
Thomas,  thou  art  moved  too  much. 

Becket. 

O  Herbert,  here 

I  gash  myself  asunder  from  the  King, 

'I'ho'  leaving  each,  a  wound  ;  mine  own,  a  grief 

To  show  the  scar  for  ever — his,  a  hate 

Not  ever  to  be  heal'd. 

Efiter  Rosamund  de  Clifford,  flying  from  Sir  Regi- 
nald FiTZURSE.     Drops  her  veil. 

Becket. 

Rosamund  de  Clifford  ! 

Rosamund. 
Save  me,  father,  hide  me — they  follow  me — and  I 
must  not  be  known. 

Becket. 

Pass  in  with  Herbert  there. 

\_Exeunt  Rosamund  and  Herbert  by  side  door. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  35 

Enter  Fitzurse, 

FiTZURSE. 

The  Archbishop  ! 

Becket. 
Ay  !  what  wouldst  thou,  Reginald  ? 

Fitzurse. 
Why — why,  my  lord,  I  foUow'd — foUow'd  one 


Becket. 
And  then  what  follows  ?     Let  me  follow  thee. 

Fitzurse. 
It  much  imports  me  I  should  know  her  name. 

Becket. 
What  her? 

Fitzurse. 
The  woman  that  I  follow'd  hither. 

Becket. 
Perhaps  it  may  import  her  all  as  much 
Not  to  be  known. 

Fitzurse. 
And  what  care  I  for  that  ? 
Come,  come,  my  lord  Archbishop ;  I  saw  that  door 
Close  even  now  upon  the  woman. 


36  BECKET.  act.  i. 

Becket. 

Well? 

FiTZURSE  {making for  the  door). 
Nay,  let  me  pass,  my  lord,  for  I  must  know. 

Becket. 
Back,  man ! 

FiTZURSE. 

Then  tell  me  who  and  what  she  is. 

Becket. 

Art  thou  so  sure  thou  foUowedst  anything? 
Go  home,  and  sleep  thy  wine  off,  for  thine  eyes 
Glare  stupid-wild  with  wine. 

FiTZURSE  {making  to  the  door). 

I  must  and  will. 
I  care  not  for  thy  new  archbishoprick. 

Becket. 

Back,  man,  I  tell  thee  !     What ! 
Shall  I  forget  my  new  archbishoprick 
And  smite  thee  with  my  crozier  on  the  skull? 
'Fore  God,  I  am  a  mightier  man  than  thou. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  37 

FiTZURSE. 

It  well  befits  thy  new  archbishoprick 

To  take  the  vagabond  woman  of  the  street 

Into  thine  arms  ! 

Becket. 

0  drunken  ribaldry  ! 
Out,  beast !  out,  bear  ! 

FiTZURSE. 

I  shall  remember  this. 

Becket. 
Do,  and  begone  !  {^Exit  Fitzurse. 

[  Going  to  the  door,  sees  De  Tracy. 
Tracy,  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

De  Tracy. 
My  lord,  I  foUow'd  Reginald  Fitzurse. 

Becket. 
Follow  him  out ! 

De  Tracy. 

1  shall  remember  this 
Discourtesy.  \_Extt. 


38  BECKET.  act  i. 

Becket. 

Do.     These  be  those  baron-brutes 
That  havock'd  all  the  land  in  Stephen's  day. 
Rosamund  de  CUfford. 

Re-enter  Rosamund  and  Herbert. 

Rosamund. 
Here  am  I. 

Becket. 

Why  here? 

We  gave  thee  to  the  charge  of  John  of  Salisbury, 

To  pass  thee  to  thy  secret  bower  to-morrow. 

Wast  thou  not  told  to  keep  thyself  from  sight  ? 

Rosamund. 

Poor  bird  of  passage  !  so  I  was  ;  but,  father, 
They  say  that  you  are  wise  in  winged  things, 
And  know  the  ways  of  Nature.     Bar  the  bird 
From  following  the  fled  summer — a  chink — he's  out, 
Gone  !     And  there  stole  into  the  city  a  breath 
Full  of  the  meadows,  and  it  minded  me 
Of  the  sweet  woods  of  Clifford,  and  the  walks 
Where  I  could  move  at  pleasure,  and  I  thought 
Lo  !  I  must  out  or  die. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  39 

Becket. 

Or  out  and  die. 
And  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  this  Fitzurse  ? 

Rosamund. 

Nothing.     He  sued  my  hand.     I  shook  at  him. 
He  found  me  once  alone.     Nay — nay — I  cannot 
Tell  you  :  my  father  drove  him  and  his  friends, 
De  Tracy  and  De  Brito,  from  our  castle. 
I  was  but  fourteen  and  an  April  then. 
I  heard  him  swear  revenge. 

Becket. 

Why  will  you  court  it 
By  self-exposure  ?  flutter  out  at  night  ? 
Make  it  so  hard  to  save  a  moth  from  the  fire  ? 

Rosamund. 

I  have  saved  many  of  'em.     You  catch  'em,  so, 
Softly,  and  fling  them  out  to  the  free  air. 
They  burn  themselves  within-door. 

Becket. 

Our  good  John 
Must  speed  you  to  your  bower  at  once.     The  child 
Is  there  already. 


40  BECKET.  act  i. 

Rosamund. 
Yes — the  child — the  child — 
O  rare,  a  whole  long  day  of  open  field. 

Becket. 
Ay,  but  you  go  disguised. 

RosAivruND, 

O  rare  again ! 
We'll  baffle  them,  I  warrant.     What  shall  it  be  ? 
I'll  go  as  a  nun. 

Becket. 
No. 

Rosamund. 

What,  not  good  enough 
Even  to  play  at  nun? 

Becket. 

Dan  John  with  a  nun, 
That  Map,  and  these  new  railers  at  the  Church 
May  plaister  his  clean  name  with  scurrilous  rhymes  ! 
No! 

Go  like  a  monk,  cowling  and  clouding  up 
That  fatal  star,  thy  Beauty,  from  the  squint 
Of  lust  and  glare  of  malice.    Good  night !  good  night ! 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  41 

Rosamund, 

Father,  I  am  so  tender  to  all  hardness  ! 
Nay,  father,  first  thy  blessing. 

Becket. 

Wedded? 

Rosamund. 

Father ! 

Becket. 
Well,  well !  I  ask  no  more.    Heaven  bless  thee  !  hence  ! 

Rosamund. 

O,  holy  father,  when  thou  seest  him  next 
Commend  me  to  thy  friend. 

Becket. 

What  friend? 

Rosamund. 

The  King. 

Becket. 

Herbert,  take  out  a  score  of  armed  men 
To  guard  this  bird  of  passage  to  her  cage ; 
And  watch  Fitzurse,  and  if  he  follow  thee, 
Make  him  thy  prisoner.     I  am  Chancellor  yet. 

\_Exeunt  Herbert  and  Rosamund. 


4«  BECKET.  ACT  i. 

Poor  soul !  poor  soul ! 

My  friend,  the  King  !  . .  .  O  thou  Great  Seal  of  England, 

Given  me  by  my  dear  friend  the  King  of  England — 

We  long  have  wrought  together,  thou  and  I — 

Now  must  I  send  thee  as  a  common  friend 

To  tell  the  King,  my  friend,  I  am  against  him. 

We  are  friends  no  more  :  he  will  say  that,  not  1. 

The  worldly  bond  between  us  is  dissolved, 

Not  yet  the  love  :  can  I  be  under  him 

As  Chancellor?  as  Archbishop  over  him? 

Go  therefore  like  a  friend  slighted  by  one 

That  hath  climb'd  up  to  nobler  company. 

Not  slighted — all  but  moan'd  for  :  thou  must  go. 

I  have  not  dishonour'd  thee — I  trust  I  have  not ; 

Not  mangled  justice.     May  the  hand  that  next 

Inherits  thee  be  but  as  true  to  thee 

As  mine  hath  been  !     O,  my  dear  friend,  the  King  ! 

0  brother  ! — I  may  come  to  martyrdom. 

1  am  martyr  in  myself  already. — Herbert ! 

Herbert  {r-e- entering). 
My  lord,  the  town  is  quiet,  and  the  moon 
Divides  the  whole  long  street  with  light  and  shade. 
No  footfall — no  Fitzurse.     We  have  seen  her  home. 

Becket. 
The  hog  hath  tumbled  himself  into  some  corner, 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  43 

Some  ditch,  to  snore  away  his  drunkenness 
Into  the  sober  headache, — Nature's  moral 
Against  excess.     Let  the  Great  Seal  be  sent 
Back  to  the  King  to-morrow. 

Herbert. 

Must  that  be  ? 
The  King  may  rend  the  bearer  limb  from  limb. 
Think  on  it  again. 

Becket. 
Against  the  moral  excess 
No  physical  ache,  but  failure  it  may  be 
Of  all  we  aim'd  at.     John  of  Salisbury 
Hath  often  laid  a  cold  hand  on  my  heats, 
And  Herbert  hath  rebuked  me  even  now. 
I  will  be  wise  and  wary,  not  the  soldier 
As  Foliot  swears  it. — John,  and  out  of  breath  ! 

Enter  John  of  Salisbury. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Thomas,  thou  wast  not  happy  taking  charge 
Of  this  wild  Rosamund  to  please  the  King, 
Nor  am  I  happy  having  charge  of  her — 
The  included  Danae  has  escaped  again 
Her  tower,  and  her  Acrisius — where  to  seek? 
I  have  been  about  the  city. 


44  BECKET.  ACT  I. 

Becket. 

Thou  wilt  find  her 
Back  in  her  lodging.     Go  with  her — at  once — 
To-night — my  men  will  guard  you  to  the  gates. 
Be  sweet  to  her,  she  has  many  enemies. 
Send  the  Great  Seal  by  daybreak.     Both,  good  night ! 

Scene  II. — Street  in  Northampton  leading  to  the  Castle. 
Eleanor's  Retainers  and  Becket's  Retainers 
fighting.  Enter  Eleanor  and  Becket  from 
opposite  streets. 

Eleanor. 
Peace,  fools ! 

Becket. 
Peace,  friends  !  what  idle  brawl  is  this  ? 

Retainer  of  Becket. 

They  said — her  Grace's  people — thou  wast  found — 
Liars  !  I  shame  to  quote  'em — caught,  my  lord. 
With  a  wanton  in  thy  lodging — Hell  requite  'em  ! 

Retainer  of  Eleanor. 

My  liege,  the  Lord  Fitzurse  reported  this 
In  passing  to  the  Castle  even  now. 


SCENE  11.  BECKET.  45 

Retainer  of  Becket. 
And  then  they  mock'd  us  and  we  fell  upon  'em, 
For  we  would  live  and  die  for  thee,  my  lord. 
However  kings  and  queens  may  frown  on  thee. 

Becket  to  his  Retainers. 
Go,  go — no  more  of  this  ! 

Eleanor  to  her  Retainers. 
Away  ! — {^Exeunt  Retainers)  Fitzurse— — 

Becket. 
Nay,  let  him  be. 

Eleanor. 
No,  no,  my  Lord  Archbishop, 
'Tis  known  you  are  midwinter  to  all  women. 
But  often  in  your  chancellorship  you  served 
The  folUes  of  the  King. 

Becket. 
No,  not  these  follies  ! 

Eleanor. 
My  lord,  Fitzurse  beheld  her  in  your  lodging. 

Becket. 
Whom? 


46  BECKET. 


ACT  I. 


Eleanor. 
Well — you  know — the  minion,  Rosamund. 

Becket. 
He  had  good  eyes  ! 

Eleanor. 

Then  hidden  in  the  street 
He  watch'd  her  pass  with  John  of  Salisbury 
And  heard  her  cry  '  Where  is  this  bower  of  mine  ? ' 

Becket. 
Good  ears  too  ! 

Eleanor. 

You  are  going  to  the  Castle, 
Will  you  subscribe  the  customs  ? 

Becket. 

I  leave  that, 
Knowing  how  much  you  reverence  Holy  Church, 
My  liege,  to  your  conjecture. 

Eleanor. 

I  and  mine — 
And  many  a  baron  holds  along  with  me — 
Are  not  so  much  at  feud  with  Holy  Church 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  47 

But  we  might  take  your  side  against  the  customs — 
So  that  you  grant  me  one  shght  favour. 

Becket. 

What? 

Eleanor. 

A  sight  of  that  same  chart  which  Henry  gave  you 
With  the  red  line — '  her  bower.' 

Becket. 

And  to  what  end  ? 

Eleanor. 

That  Church  must  scorn  herself  whose  fearful  Priest 
Sits  winking  at  the  license  of  a  king, 
Altho'  we  grant  when  kings  are  dangerous 
The  Church  must  play  into  the  hands  of  kings ; 
Look  !  I  would  move  this  wanton  from  his  sight 
And  take  the  Church's  danger  on  myself. 

Becket. 
For  which  she  should  be  duly  grateful. 

Eleanor. 

True! 

Tho'  she  that  binds  the  bond,  herself  should  see 

That  kings  are  faithful  to  their  marriage  vow. 


48  BECKET.  ACT  I. 

Becket. 
Ay,  Madam,  and  queens  also, 

Eleanor. 

And  queens  also  ! 
What  is  your  drift  ? 

Becket. 
My  drift  is  to  the  Castle, 
Where  I  shall  meet  the  Barons  and  my  King.     \_Extf. 

De  Broc,  De  Tracy,  De  Brito,  De 
MoRViLLE  {passing). 

Eleanor. 
To  the  Castle? 

De  Broc. 

Ay! 

Eleanor. 

Stir  up  the  King,  the  Lords  ! 
Set  all  on  fire  against  him  ! 

De  Brito. 
Ay,  good  Madam  !     \_Exeunt 

Eleanor. 
Fool !  I  will  make  thee  hateful  to  thy  King. 
Churl !  I  will  have  thee  frighted  into  France, 
And  I  shall  hve  to  trample  on  thy  grave. 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  49 

Scene  III.— The  Hajlin .Northampton  Castle. 

On  one  side  of  the  stage  the  doors  of  an  inner  Council- 
chatnber,  half-open.  At  the  bottom,  the  great 
doors  of  the  Hail.  Roger  Archbishop  of  York, 
FoLiOT  Bishop  of  London,  Hilary  of  Chiches- 
ter, Bishop  of  Hereford,  Richard  de  Hastings 
(^Grand  Prior  of  Templars),  Philip  de  Elee- 
MOSYNA  {the  Pope's  Almoner'),  and  others.  De 
Broc,  Fitzurse,  De  Brito,  De  Morville,  De 
Tracy,  and  other  Barons  assembled — a  table 
before  them.  John  of  Oxford,  President  of 
the  Council. 

Enter  Becket  and  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Becket. 
Where  is  the  King? 

Roger  of  York, 

Gone  hawking  on  the  Nene, 
His  heart  so  gall'd  with  thine  ingratitude, 
He  will  not  see  thy  face  till  thou  hast  sign'd 
These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the  realm. 
Thy  sending  back  the  Great  Seal  madden'd  him, 
He  all  but  pluck'd  the  bearer's  eyes  away. 
Take  heed,  lest  he  destroy  thee  utterly. 

VOL.  VI.  E 


50  BECKET.  ACT  i. 

Becket. 
Then  shalt  thou  step  into  my  place  and  sign. 

Roger  of  York. 

Didst  thou  not  promise  Henry  to  obey 
These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the  realm  ? 

Becket. 

Saving  the  honour  of  my  order — ay. 

Customs,  traditions, — clouds  that  come  and  go ; 

The  customs  of  the  Church  are  Peter's  rock. 

Roger  of  York. 

Saving  thine  order  !     But  King  Henry  sware 
That,  saving  his  King's  kingship,  he  would  grant  thee 
The  crown  itself     Saving  thine  order,  Thomas, 
Is  black  and  white  at  once,  and  comes  to  nought. 
O  bolster'd  up  with  stubbornness  and  pride. 
Wilt  thou  destroy  the  Church  in  fighting  for  it, 
And  bring  us  all  to  shame  ? 

Becket. 

Roger  of  York, 
When  I  and  thou  were  youths  in  Theobald's  house, 
Twice  did  thy  malice  and  thy  calumnies 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  51 

Exile  me  from  the  face  of  Theobald. 
Now  I  am  Canterbury  and  thou  art  York. 

Roger  of  York. 

And  is  not  York  the  peer  of  Canterbury  ? 
Did  not  great  Gregory  bid  St.  Austin  here 
Found  two  archbishopricks,  London  and  York? 

Becket. 

What  came  of  that  ?     The  first  archbishop  fled, 
And  York  lay  barren  for  a  hundred  years. 
Why,  by  this  rule,  Foliot  may  claim  the  pall 
For  London  too. 

Foliot. 

And  with  good  reason  too, 
For  London  had  a  temple  and  a  priest 
When  Canterbury  hardly  bore  a  name. 

Becket, 

The  pagan  temple  of  a  pagan  Rome  ! 

The  heathen  priesthood  of  a  heathen  creed  ! 

Thou  goest  beyond  thyself  in  petulancy  ! 

Who  made  thee  London?     Who,  but  Canterbury? 

John  of  Oxford. 
Peace,  peace,  my  lords  !  these  customs  are  no  longer 


5*  BECKET.  ACT  I, 

As  Canterbury  calls  them,  wandering  clouds, 
But  by  the  King's  command  are  written  down. 
And  by  the  King's  command  I,  John  of  Oxford, 
The  President  of  this  Council,  read  them. 

Becket. 

Read ! 

John  of  Oxford  {reads.) 

All  causes  of  advowsons  and  presentations,  whether 
between  laymen  or  clerics,  shall  be  tried  in  the  King's 
court.' 

Becket. 

But  that  I  cannot  sign  :  for  that  would  drag 
The  cleric  before  the  civil  judgment-seat, 
And  on  a  matter  wholly  spiritual. 

John  of  Oxford. 

'If  any  cleric  be  accused  of  felony,  the  Church 
shall  not  protect  him  ;  but  he  shall  answer  to  the  sum- 
mons of  the  King's  court  to  be  tried  therein.' 

Becket. 
And  that  I  cannot  sign. 
Is  not  the  Church  the  visible  Lord  on  earth  ? 
Shall  hands  that  do  create  the  Lord  be  bound 
Behind  the  back  like  laymen-criminals  ? 
The  Lord  be  judged  again  by  Pilate  ?     No  ! 


SCENE  III.  BECKET. 


53 


John  of  Oxford. 

'When  a  bishoprick  falls  vacant,  the  King,  till 
another  be  appointed,  shall  receive  the  revenues 
thereof.' 

Becket. 

And  that  I  cannot  sign.     Is  the  King's  treasury 
A  fit  place  for  the  monies  of  the  Church, 
That  be  the  patrimony  of  the  poor  ? 

John  of  Oxford. 

'And  when  the  vacancy  is  to  be  filled  up,  the  King 
shall  summon  the  chapter  of  that  church  to  court,  and 
the  election  shall  be  made  in  the  Chapel  Royal,  with 
the  consent  of  our  lord  the  King,  and  by  the  advice 
of  his  Government.' 

Becket. 

And  that  I  cannot  sign :  for  that  would  make 
Our  island-Church  a  schism  from  Christendom, 
And  weight  down  all  free  choice  beneath  the  throne. 

FOLIOT. 

And  was  thine  own  election  so  canonical. 
Good  father? 

Becket. 

If  it  were  not,  Gilbert  Foliot, 


54  BECKET.  ACT  I. 

I  mean  to  cross  the  sea  to  France,  and  lay 
My  crozier  in  the  Holy  Father's  hands, 
And  bid  him  re-create  me,  Gilbert  Foliot. 

FOLIOT. 

Nay ;  by  another  of  these  customs  thou 
Wilt  not  be  suffer'd  so  to  cross  the  seas 
Without  the  license  of  our  lord  the  King. 

Becket. 
That,  too,  I  cannot  sign. 

De  Broc,  De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse,  De 
MoRViLLE,  start  up — a  dash  of  swords. 

Sign  and  obey  ! 

Becket. 

My  lords,  is  this  a  combat  or  a  council  ? 
Are  ye  my  masters,  or  my  lord  the  King  ? 
Ye  make  this  clashing  for  no  love  o'  the  customs 
Or  constitutions,  or  whate'er  ye  call  them, 
But  that  there  be  among  you  those  that  hold 
Lands  reft  from  Canterbury. 

De  Broc. 

And  mean  to  keep  them. 
In  spite  of  thee  ! 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  55 

Lords  {shouting). 
Sign,  and  obey  the  crown  ! 

Becket. 

The  crown  ?    Shall  I  do  less  for  Canterbury 

Than  Henry  for  the  crown  ?     King  Stephen  gave 

Many  of  the  crown  lands  to  those  that  helpt  him ; 

So  did  Matilda,  the  King's  mother.     Mark, 

When  Henry  came  into  his  own  again, 

Then  he  took  back  not  only  Stephen's  gifts, 

But  his  own  mother's,  lest  the  crown  should  be 

Shorn  of  ancestral  splendour.     This  did  Henry. 

Shall  I  do  less  for  mine  own  Canterbury? 

And  thou,  De  Broc,  that  boldest  Saltwood  Castle 


De  Broc. 
And  mean  to  hold  it,  or 

Becket. 

To  have  my  life. 

De  Broc. 

The  King  is  quick  to  anger  ;  if  thou  anger  him, 
We  wait  but  the  King's  word  to  strike  thee  dead. 


56  BECKET.  ACT  i. 

Becket. 

Strike,  and  I  die  the  death  of  martyrdom  ; 
Strike,  and  ye  set  these  customs  by  my  death 
Ringing  their  own  death-knell  thro'  all  the  realm. 

Herbert. 

And  I  can  tell  you,  lords,  ye  are  all  as  like 
To  lodge  a  fear  in  Thomas  Becket's  heart 
As  find  a  hare's  form  in  a  lion's  cave. 

John  of  Oxford. 
Ay,  sheathe  your  swords,  ye  will  displease  the  King. 

De  Broc. 

Why  down  then  thou  !  but  an  he  come  to  Saltwood, 
By  God's  death,  thou  shalt  stick  him  like  a  calf ! 

\Sheathing  his  sword. 

Hilary. 

O  my  good  lord,  I  do  entreat  thee — sign. 
Save  the  King's  honour  here  before  his  barons. 
He  hath  sworn  that  thou  shouldst  sign,  and  now  but 

shuns 
The  semblance  of  defeat ;  I  have  heard  him  say 
He  means  no  more  ;  so  if  thou  sign,  my  lord, 
That  were  but  as  the  shadow  of  an  assent. 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  57 

Becket. 
'Twould  seem  too  like  the  substance,  if  I  sign'd. 

Philip  de  Eleemosyna. 
My  lord,  thine  ear  !     I  have  the  ear  of  the  Pope. 
As  thou  hast  honour  for  the  Pope  our  master, 
Have  pity  on  him,  sorely  prest  upon 
By  the  fierce  Emperor  and  his  Antipope. 
Thou  knowest  he  was  forced  to  fly  to  France ; 
He  pray'd  me  to  pray  thee  to  pacify 
Thy  King  ;  for  if  thou  go  against  thy  King, 
Then  must  he  likewise  go  against  thy  King, 
And  then  thy  King  might  join  the  Antipope, 
And  that  would  shake  the  Papacy  as  it  stands. 
Besides,  thy  King  swore  to  our  cardinals 
He  meant  no  harm  nor  damage  to  the  Church. 
Smoothe  thou  his  pride — thy  signing  is  but  form  ; 
Nay,  and  should  harm  come  of  it,  it  is  the  Pope 
Will  be  to  blame — not  thou.     Over  and  over 
He  told  me  thou  shouldst  pacify  the  King, 
Lest  there  be  battle  between  Heaven  and  Earth, 
And  Earth  should  get  the  better — for  the  time. 
Cannot  the  Pope  absolve  thee  if  thou  sign  ? 

Becket. 
Have  I  the  orders  of  the  Holy  Father  ? 


58  BECKET.  act  i. 

Philip  de  Eleemosyna. 

Orders,  my  lord — why,  no ;  for  what  am  I  ? 

The  secret  whisper  of  the  Holy  Father. 

Thou,  that  hast  been  a  statesman,  couldst  thou  always 

Blurt  thy  free  mind  to  the  air? 

Becket. 
If  Rome  be  feeble,  then  should  I  be  firm. 

Philip. 

Take  it  not  that  way — balk  not  the  Pope's  will. 

When  he  hath  shaken  off  the  Emperor, 

He  heads  the  Church  against  the  King  with  thee. 

Richard  de  Hastings  {kneeling). 

Becket,  I  am  the  oldest  of  the  Templars  ; 
I  knew  thy  father ;  he  would  be  mine  age 
Had  he  lived  now  ;  think  of  me  as  thy  father  ! 
Behold  thy  father  kneeling  to  thee,  Becket. 
Submit ;  I  promise  thee  on  my  salvation 
That  thou  wilt  hear  no  more  o'  the  customs. 

Becket. 

What! 
Hath  Henry  told  thee  ?  hast  thou  talk'd  with  him  ? 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  59 

Another  Templar  {kneeling). 

Father,  I  am  the  youngest  of  the  Templars, 
Look  on  me  as  I  were  thy  bodily  son, 
For,  like  a  son,  I  lift  my  hands  to  thee. 

Philip. 

Wilt  thou  hold  out  for  ever,  Thomas  Becket  ? 
Dost  thou  not  hear? 

Becket  (j-^^;; J'). 
Why — there  then — there — I  sign, 
And  swear  to  obey  the  customs. 

FOLIOT. 

Is  it  thy  will, 
My  lord  Archbishop,  that  we  too  should  sign  ? 

Becket. 

O  ay,  by  that  canonical  obedience 

Thou  still  hast  owed  thy  father,  Gilbert  Foliot. 

FOLIOT. 

Loyally  and  with  good  faith,  my  lord  Archbishop  ? 

Becket. 
O  ay,  with  all  that  loyalty  and  good  faith 


6o  BECKET. 


ACT  L 


Thou  still  hast  shown  thy  primate,  Gilbert  Foliot. 

[Becket  draws  apart  with  Herbert. 
Herbert,  Herbert,  have  I  betray 'd  the  Church? 
I'll  have  the  paper  back — blot  out  my  name. 

Herbert. 
Too  late,  my  lord :  you  see  they  are  signing  there. 

Becket. 
False  to  myself— it  is  the  will  of  God 
To  break  me,  prove  me  nothing  of  myself ! 
This  Almoner  hath  tasted  Henry's  §old. 
The  cardinals  have  finger'd  Henry's  gold. 
And  Rome  is  venal  ev'n  to  rottenness. 
I  see  it,  I  see  it. 

I  am  no  soldier,  as  he  said — at  least 
No  leader.     Herbert,  till  I  hear  from  the  Pope 
I  will  suspend  myself  from  all  my  functions. 
If  fast  and  prayer,  the  lacerating  scourge 

Foliot  {from  the  table). 
My  lord  Archbishop,  thou  hast  yet  to  seal. 

Becket. 
First,  Foliot,  let  me  see  what  I  have  sign'd. 

\_Goes  to  the  table. 
What,  this !  and  this  ! — what !  new  and  old  together  ! 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  6i 

Seal?     If  a  seraph  shouted  from  the  sun, 

And  bad  me  seal  against  the  rights  of  the  Church, 

I  would  anathematise  him.     I  will  not  seal. 

\Exit  with  Herbert. 

Enter  King  Henry. 

Henry. 

Where's  Thomas  ?  hath  he  sign'd  ?  show  me  the  papers  ! 
Sign'd  and  not  seal'd  !     How's  that? 

John  of  Oxford. 

He  would  not  seal. 
And  when  he  sign'd,  his  face  was  stormy-red — 
Shame,  wrath,  I  know  not  what.     He  sat  down  there 
And  dropt  it  in  his  hands,  and  then  a  paleness, 
Like  the  wan  twilight  after  sunset,  crept 
Up  even  to  the  tonsure,  and  he  groan'd, 
*  False  to  myself !     It  is  the  will  of  God  ! ' 

Henry. 
God's  will  be  what  it  will,  the  man  shall  seal. 
Or  I  will  seal  his  doom.     My  burgher's  son — 
Nay,  if  I  cannot  break  him  as  the  prelate, 
I'll  crush  him  as  the  subject.     Send  for  him  back. 

\Sits  on  his  throne. 
Barons  and  bishops  of  our  realm  of  England, 
After  the  nineteen  winters  of  King  Stephen — 


62  BECKET.  ACT  i. 

A  reign  which  was  no  reign,  when  none  could  sit 
By  his  own  hearth  in  peace  ;  when  murder  common 
As  nature's  death,  Uke  Egypt's  plague,  had  fiU'd 
All  things  with  blood  ;  when  every  doorway  blush'd, 
Dash'd  red  with  that  unhallow'd  passover ; 
When  every  baron  ground  his  blade  in  blood ; 
The  household  dough  was  kneaded  up  with  blood ; 
The  millwheel  turn'd  in  blood ;  the  wholesome  plow 
Lay  rusting  in  the  furrow's  yellow  weeds. 
Till  famine  dwarft  the  race — I  came,  your  King  ! 
Nor  dwelt  alone,  like  a  soft  lord  of  the  East, 
In  mine  own  hall,  and  sucking  thro'  fools'  ears 
The  flatteries  of  corruption — went  abroad 
Thro'  all  my  counties,  spied  my  people's  ways ; 
Yea,  heard  the  churl  against  the  baron — yea, 
And  did  him  justice  ;  sat  in  mine  own  courts 
Judging  my  judges,  that  had  found  a  King 
Who  ranged  confusions,  made  the  twilight  day. 
And  struck  a  shape  from  out  the  vague,  and  law 
From  madness.     And  the  event — our  fallows  till'd. 
Much  corn,  repeopled  towns,  a  realm  again. 
So  far  my  course,  albeit  not  glassy-smooth. 
Had  prosper'd  in  the  main,  but  suddenly 
Jarr'd  on  this  rock.     A  cleric  violated 
The  daughter  of  his  host,  and  murder'd  him. 
Bishops — York,  London,  Chichester,  Westminster — 
Ye  haled  this  tonsured  devil  into  your  courts ; 


SCENE  III,  BECKET.  63 

But  since  your  canon  will  not  let  you  take 

Life  for  a  life,  ye  but  degraded  him 

Where  I  had  hang'd  him.    What  doth  hard  murder  care 

For  degradation  ?  and  that  made  me  muse, 

Being  bounden  by  my  coronation  oath 

To  do  men  justice.     Look  to  it,  your  own  selves  ! 

Say  that  a  cleric  murder'd  an  archbishop, 

What  could  ye  do  ?     Degrade,  imprison  him — 

Not  death  for  death. 

John  of  Oxford. 

But  I,  my  liege,  could  swear. 
To  death  for  death. 

Henry. 

And,  looking  thro'  my  reign, 
I  found  a  hundred  ghastly  murders  done 
By  men,  the  scum  and  offal  of  the  Church  ; 
Then,  glancing  thro'  the  story  of  this  realm, 
I  came  on  certain  wholesome  usages. 
Lost  in  desuetude,  of  my  grandsire's  day. 
Good  royal  customs — had  them  written  fair 
For  John  of  Oxford  here  to  read  to  you. 

John  of  Oxford. 

And  I  can  easily  swear  to  these  as  being 

The  King's  will  and  God's  will  and  justice  ;  yet 

I  could  but  read  a  part  to-day,  because 


64  BECKET. 

FiTZURSE. 

Because  my  lord  of  Canterbury— 

De  Tracy. 
This  lord  of  Canterbury 


ACT  I. 


Ay, 


De  Brito. 

As  is  his  wont 
Too  much  of  late  whene'er  your  royal  rights 
Are  mooted  in  our  councils — 

FiTZURSE. 

— made  an  uproar. 

Henry. 

And  Becket  had  my  bosom  on  all  this ; 

If  ever  man  by  bonds  of  gratefulness — 

I  raised  him  from  the  puddle  of  the  gutter, 

I  made  him  porcelain  from  the  clay  of  the  city — 

Thought  that  I  knew  him,  err'd  thro'  love  of  him, 

Hoped,   were   he    chosen    archbishop,    Church    and 

Crown, 
Two  sisters  gliding  in  an  equal  dance, 
Two  rivers  gently  flowing  side  by  side — 
But  no  ! 
The  bird  that  moults  sings  the  same  song  again, 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  65 

The  snake  that  sloughs  comes  out  a  snake  again. 
Snake — ay,  but  he  that  lookt  a  fangless  one, 
Issues  a  venomous  adder. 

For  he,  when  having  dofft  the  Chancellor's  robe — 
Flung  the  Great  Seal  of  England  in  my  face — 
Claim'd  some  of  our  crown  lands  for  Canterbury — 
My  comrade,  boon  companion,  my  co-reveller, 
The  master  of  his  master,  the  King's  king — 
God's  eyes  !     I  had  meant  to  make  him  all  but  king. 
Chancellor-Archbishop,  he  might  well  have  sway'd 
All  England  under  Henry,  the  young  King, 
When  I  was  hence.     What  did  the  traitor  say? 
False  to  himself,  but  ten-fold  false  to  me  ! 
The  will  of  God — why,  then  it  is  my  will — 
Is  he  coming? 

Messenger  {entering) . 

With  a  crowd  of  worshippers, 
And  holds  his  cross  before  him  thro'  the  crowd, 
As  one  that  puts  himself  in  sanctuary. 

Henry. 
His  cross ! 

Roger  of  York, 

His  cross  !  I'll  front  him,  cross  to  cross. 
^£xit  Roger  of  York. 

VOL.   VI.  F 


66  BECKET.  act  i. 

Henry. 

His  cross  !  it  is  the  traitor  that  imputes 
Treachery  to  his  King  ! 
It  is  not  safe  for  me  to  look  upon  him. 
Away — with  me  ! 

[  Goes  in  with  his  Barons  to  the  Council  Chamber, 
the  door  of  which  is  left  open. 

Enter  Becket,  holding  his  cross  of  silver  before  him. 
The  Bishops  come  round  him. 

Hereford. 

The  King  will  not  abide  thee  with  thy  cross. 
Permit  me,  ray  good  lord,  to  bear  it  for  thee, 
Being  thy  chaplain. 

Becket. 
No  :  it  must  protect  me. 

Herbert. 

As  once  he  bore  the  standard  of  the  Angles, 
So  now  he  bears  the  standard  of  the  angels. 

FOLIOT. 

I  am  the  Dean  of  the  province  :  let  me  bear  it. 
Make  not  thy  King  a  traitorous  murderer. 


i 


scene  iii.  becket.  67 

Becket. 
Did  not  your  barons  draw  their  swords  against  me  ? 

E?ifer  Roger  of  York,  with  his  cross, 
advancing  to  Becket. 

Becket. 

Wherefore  dost  thou  presume  to  bear  thy  cross, 
Against  the  solemn  ordinance  from  Rome, 
Out  of  thy  province  ? 

Roger  of  York. 

Why  dost  thou  presume, 
Arm'd  with  thy  cross,  to  come  before  the  King? 
If  Canterbury  bring  his  cross  to  court. 
Let  York  bear  his  to  mate  with  Canterbury. 

FoLiOT  {^seizing  hold  of  Becket's  cross) . 

Nay,  nay,  my  lord,  thou  must  not  brave  the  King. 
Nay,  let  me  have  it.     I  will  have  it ! 

Becket. 

Away  ! 

\_FH?iging  him  off. 

Foliot. 

He  fasts,  they  say,  this  mitred-Hercules  ! 


68  BECKET.  act  i. 

He  fast !  is  that  an  arm  of  fast  ?     My  lord, 
Hadst  thou  not  sign'd,  I  had  gone  along  with  thee ; 
But  thou  the  shepherd  hast  betray'd  the  sheep, 
And  thou  art  perjured,  and  thou  wilt  not  seal. 
As  Chancellor  thou  wast  against  the  Church, 
Now  as  Archbishop  goest  against  the  King ; 
For,  like  a  fool,  thou  knowst  no  middle  way. 
Ay,  ay  !  but  art  thou  stronger  than  the  king? 

Becket. 

Strong — not  in  mine  own  self,  but  Heaven ;  true 
To  either  function,  holding  it ;  and  thou 
Fast,  scourge  thyself,  and  mortify  thy  flesh. 
Not  spirit — thou  remainest  Gilbert  Foliot, 
A  worldly  follower  of  the  worldly  strong. 
I,  bearing  this  great  ensign,  make  it  clear 
Under  what  Prince  I  fight. 

Foliot. 

My  lord  of  York, 
Let  us  go  in  to  the  Council,  where  our  bishops 
And  our  great  lords  will  sit  in  judgment  on  him. 

Becket. 

Sons  sit  in  judgment  on  their  father  ! — then 

The  spire  of  Holy  Church  may  prick  the  graves — 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  69 

Her  crypt  among  the  stars.     Sign?  seal?     I  promised 
The  King  to  obey  these  customs,  not  yet  written, 
Saving  mine  order ;  true  too,  that  when  written 
I  sign'd  them — being  a  fool,  as  Foliot  call'd  me. 
I  hold  not  by  my  signing.     Get  ye  hence, 
Tell  what  I  say  to  the  King. 

\_Exeunt  Hereford,  Foliot,  and  other 
Bishops. 

Roger  of  York. 

The  Church  will  hate  thee. 

{^Exit 
Becket. 

Serve  my  best  friend  and  make  him  my  worst  foe ; 
Fight  for  the  Church,  and  set  the  Church  against  me  ! 

Herbert. 

To  be  honest  is  to  set  all  knaves  against  thee. 
Ah  !  Thomas,  excommunicate  them  all ! 

Hereford  {re-entering). 

I  cannot  brook  the  turmoil  thou  hast  raised. 
I  would,  my  lord  Thomas  of  Canterbury, 
Thou  wert  plain  Thomas  and  not  Canterbury, 
Or  that  thou  wouldst  deliver  Canterbury 
To  our  King's  hands  again,  and  be  at  peace. 


70  BECKET.  act  i. 

Hilary  {re-entering). 

For  hath  not  thine  ambition  set  the  Church 
This  day  between  the  hammer  and  the  anvil — 
Fealty  to  the  King,  obedience  to  thyself? 

Herbert. 
What  say  the  bishops? 

Hilary. 

Some  have  pleaded  for  him, 
But  the  King  rages — most  are  with  the  King ; 
And  some  are  reeds,  that  one  time  sway  to  the  current. 
And  to  the  wind  another.     But  we  hold 
Thou  art  forsworn ;  and  no  forsworn  Archbishop 
Shall  helm  the  Church.     We  therefore  place  ourselves 
Under  the  shield  and  safeguard  of  the  Pope, 
And  cite  thee  to  appear  before  the  Pope, 
And  answer  thine  accusers.  .  .  .  Art  thou  deaf? 

Becket. 
I  hear  you.  \_Clash  of  arms. 

Hilary. 

Dost  thou  hear  those  others? 

Becket. 

Ayl 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  71 

Roger  of  York  {re-e?itering). 

The  King's  *  God's  eyes  ! '  come  now  so  thick  and  fast, 

We  fear  that  he  may  reave  thee  of  thine  ovm. 

Come  on,  come  on  !  it  is  not  fit  for  us 

To  see  the  proud  Archbishop  mutilated. 

Say  that  he  blind  thee  and  tear  out  thy  tongue. 

Becket. 

So  be  it.     He  begins  at  top  with  me  : 
They  crucified  St.  Peter  downward. 

Roger  of  York. 

Nay, 
But  for  their  sake  who  stagger  betwixt  thine 
Appeal,  and  Henry's  anger,  yield. 

Becket. 

Hence,  Satan ! 

[^.r// Roger  of  York. 

FiTZURSE  (re-entering) . 

My  lord,  the  King  demands  three  hundred  marks, 
Due  from  his  castles  of  Berkhamstead  and  Eye 
When  thou  thereof  wast  warden. 


72  SECKET.  ACT  I. 

Becket. 

Tell  the  King 

I  spent  thrice  that  in  fortifying  his  castles. 

De  Tracy  {re-entering). 

My  lord,  the  King  demands  seven  hundred  marks, 
Lent  at  the  siege  of  Thoulouse  by  the  Kin^. 

Becket. 
I  led  seven  hundred  knights  and  fought  his  wars. 

De  Brito  {re-entering). 

My  lord,  the  King  demands  five  hundred  marks. 
Advanced  thee  at  his  instance  by  the  Jews, 
For  which  the  King  was  bound  security. 

Becket. 
I  thought  it  was  a  gift ;  I  thought  it  was  a  gift. 

Enter  Lord  Leicester  {followed  by  Barons  and 
Bishops). 

My  lord,  I  come  unwillingly.     The  King 
Demands  a  strict  account  of  all  those  revenues 
From  all  the  vacant  sees  and  abbacies, 
Which  came  into  thy  hands  when  Chancellor. 


scene  iii.  becket.  73 

Becket. 
How  much  might  that  amount  to,  my  lord  Leicester  ? 

Leicester. 
Some  thirty — forty  thousand  silver  marks. 

Becket. 

Are  these  your  customs  ?     O  my  good  lord  Leicester, 

The  King  and  I  were  brothers.     All  I  had 

I  lavish'd  for  the  glory  of  the  King ; 

I  shone  from  him,  for  him,  his  glory,  his 

Reflection  :  now  the  glory  of  the  Church 

Hath  swallow'd  up  the  glory  of  the  King  ; 

I  am  his  no  more,  but  hers.     Grant  me  one  day 

To  ponder  these  demands. 

Leicester. 

Hear  first  thy  sentence  ! 
The  King  and  all  his  lords 


Becket. 

Son,  first  hear  me! 

Leicester. 

Nay,  nay,  canst  thou,  that  boldest  thine  estates 
In  fee  and  barony  of  the  King,  decline 
The  judgment  of  the  King  ? 


74  BECKET.  act  i. 

Becket. 

The  King  !     I  hold 
Nothing  in  fee  and  barony  of  the  King. 
Whatever  the  Church  owns — she  holds  it  ia 
Free  and  perpetual  alms,  unsubject  to 
One  earthly  sceptre. 

Leicester. 

Nay,  but  hear  thy  judgment. 
The  King  and  all  his  barons 

Becket. 

Judgment !  Barons  ! 
Who  but  the  bridegroom  dares  to  judge  the  bride, 
Or  he  the  bridegroom  may  appoint?     Not  he 
That  is  not  of  the  house,  but  from  the  street 
Stain'd  with  the  mire  thereof. 

I  had  been  so  true 
To  Henry  and  mine  office  that  the  King 
Would  throne  me  in  the  great  Archbishoprick : 
And  I,  that  knew  mine  own  infirmity, 
For  the  King's  pleasure  rather  than  God's  cause 
Took  it  upon  me — err'd  thro'  love  of  him. 
Now  therefore  God  from  me  withdraws  Himself, 
And  the  King  too. 


SCENE  III. 


BECKET,  75 


What !  forty  thousand  marks  ! 
Why  thou,  the  King,  the  Pope,  the  Saints,  the  world, 
Know  that  when  made  Archbishop  I  was  freed, 
Before  the  Prince  and  chief  Justiciary, 
From  every  bond  and  debt  and  obhgation 
Incurr'd  as  Chancellor. 

Hear  me,  son. 

As  gold 

Outvalues  dross,  light  darkness,  Abel  Cain, 

The  soul  the  body,  and  the  Church  the  Throne, 

I  charge  thee,  upon  pain  of  mine  anathema. 

That  thou  obey,  not  me,  but  God  in  me, 

Rather  than  Henry.     I  refuse  to  stand 

By  the  King's  censure,  make  my  cry  to  the  Pope, 

By  whom  I  will  be  judged  ;  refer  myself. 

The  King,  these  customs,  all  the  Church,  to  him. 

And  under  his  authority— I  depart.  S^Going. 

[Leicester  looks  at  him  doubtingly. 

Am  I  a  prisoner  ? 

Leicester. 

By  St.  Lazarus,  no  ! 
I  am  confounded  by  thee.     Go  in  peace. 

De  Broc. 

In  peace  now— but  after.     Take  that  for  earnest. 

{Flings  a  bone  at  him  from  the  rushes. 


76  BECKET. 


ACT  I. 


De  Brito,  Fitzurse,  De  Tracy,  and  others 
{flinging  wisps  of  rushes) . 

Ay,  go  in  peace,  caitiff,  caitiff !  And  that  too,  per- 
jured prelate — and  that,  turncoat  shaveUng !  There, 
there,  there  !  traitor,  traitor,  traitor  ! 

Becket. 
Mannerless  wolves  !  [^Turning  and  facing  them. 

Herbert. 

Enough,  my  lord,  enough  ! 

Becket. 

Barons  of  England  and  of  Normandy, 
When  what  ye  shake  at  doth  but  seem  to  fly. 
True  test  of  coward,  ye  follow  with  a  yell. 
But  I  that  threw  the  mightiest  knight  of  France, 
Sir  Engelram  de  Trie, 

Herbert. 

Enough,  my  lord. 

Becket. 
More  than  enough.     I  play  the  fool  again. 


SCENE  IV.  BECKET.  77 

Enter  Herald. 

Herald. 

The  King  commands  you,  upon  pain  of  death, 
That  none  should  wrong  or  injure  your  Archbishop. 

FOLIOT. 

Deal  gently  with  the  young  man  Absalom, 

\_Great  doors  of  the  Hall  at  the  back  open,  and 
discover  a  crowd.     They  shout : 

Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

Scene  IV. — Refectory  of  the  Monastery  at  Northampton. 
A  Banquet  on  the  Tables. 

Enter  Becket.     Becket's  Retainers. 

1ST  Retainer. 
Do  thou  speak  first. 

2ND  Retainer. 

Nay,  thou !     Nay,  thou  !     Hast  not  thou  drawn  the 
short  straw? 

1ST  Retainer. 

My  lord  Archbishop,  wilt  thou  permit  us 


78  BECKET.  ACT  i. 

Becket. 

To  speak  without  stammering  and  like  a  free  man  ? 
Ay. 

1ST  Retainer. 

My  lord,  permit  us  then  to  leave  thy  service. 

Becket. 
When? 

1ST  Retainer. 
Now. 

Becket. 
To-night? 

1ST  Retainer. 

To-night,  my  lord. 

Becket. 
And  why  ? 

1ST  Retainer. 

My  lord,  we  leave  thee  not  without  tears. 

Becket. 
Tears?    Why  not  stay  with  me  then? 

1ST  Retainer. 

My  lord,  we  cannot  yield  thee  an  answer  altogether 
to  thy  satisfaction. 


scene  iv.  becket.  79 

Becket. 

I  warrant  you,  or  your  own  either.  Shall  I  find 
you  one  ?    The  King  hath  frowned  upon  me. 

1ST  Retainer. 
That  is  not  altogether  our  answer,  my  lord. 

Becket. 

No ;  yet  all  but  all.  Go,  go  !  Ye  have  eaten  of 
my  dish  and  drunken  of  my  cup  for  a  dozen  years. 

1ST  Retainer. 

And  so  we  have.  We  mean  thee  no  wrong.  Wilt 
thou  not  say,  'God  bless  you,'  ere  we  go-? 

Becket. 

God  bless  you  all !  God  redden  your  pale  blood  ! 
But  mine  is  human-red ;  and  when  ye  shall  hear  it 
is  poured  out  upon  earth,  and  see  it  mounting  to 
Heaven,  my  God  bless  you,  that  seems  sweet  to  you 
now,  will  blast  and  blind  you  like  a  curse. 

1ST  Retainer. 

We  hope  not,  my  lord.  Our  humblest  thanks  for 
your  blessing.     Farewell !  \_Exeunt  Retainers. 


«o  BECKET. 


Becket. 


ACT  I. 


Farewell,  friends  !  farewell,  swallows  !  I  wrong  the 
bird  ;  she  leaves  only  the  nest  she  built,  they  leave  the 
builder.     Why?     Am  I  to  be  murdered  to-night ? 

\_Knocking  at  the  door. 

Attendant. 

Here  is  a  missive  left  at  the  gate  by  one  from  the 
castle. 

Becket. 

Cornwall's  hand  or  Leicester's  :  they  write  marvel- 
lously alike.  \_Reading. 

'  Fly  at  once  to  France,  to  King  Louis  of  France : 
there  be  those  about  our  King  who  would  have  thy 
blood.' 

Was  not  my  lord  of  Leicester  bidden  to  our  supper  ? 

Attendant. 

Ay,  my  lord,  and  divers  other  earls  and  barons. 
But  the  hour  is  past,  and  our  brother,  Master  Cook, 
he  makes  moan  that  all  be  a-getting  cold. 

Becket. 
And  I  make  my  moan  along  with  him.     Cold  after 


SCENE  IV. 


BECKET.  %\ 


warm,  winter  after  summer,  and  the  golden  leaves, 
these  earls  and  barons,  that  clung  to  me,  frosted  off 
me  by  the  first  cold  frown  of  the  King.  Cold,  but 
look  how  the  table  steams,  like  a  heathen  altar;  nay, 
like  the  altar  at  Jerusalem.  Shall  God's  good  gifts 
be  wasted?  None  of  them  here  !  Call  in  the  poor 
from  the  streets,  and  let  them  feast. 


Herbert. 
That  is  the  parable  of  our  blessed  Lord. 

Becket. 

And  why  should  not  the  parable  of  our  blessed 
Lord  be  acted  again  ?  Call  in  the  poor  !  The  Church 
is  ever  at  variance  with  the  kings,  and  ever  at  one  with 
the  poor.  I  marked  a  group  of  lazars  in  the  mar- 
ket-place—half-rag, half- sore— beggars,  poor  rogues 
(Heaven  bless  'em)  who  never  saw  nor  dreamed  of 
such  a  banquet.  I  will  amaze  them.  Call  them  in, 
I  say.  They  shall  henceforward  be  my  earls  and 
barons — our  lords  and  masters  in  Christ  Jesus. 

S^Exit  Herbert. 

If  the  King  hold  his  purpose,  I  am  myself  a  beg- 
gar. Forty  thousand  marks  !  forty  thousand  devils 
— and  these  craven  bishops  ! 


VOL.  VI. 


G 


82  BECKET.  ACT  I. 

A  Poor  Man  {entering)  with  his  dog. 
My  lord  Archbishop,  may  I  come  in  with  my  poor 
friend,  my  dog?  The  King's  verdurer  caught  him 
a-hunting  in  the  forest,  and  cut  off  his  paws.  The 
dog  followed  his  calling,  my  lord.  I  ha'  carried  him 
ever  so  many  miles  in  my  arms,  and  he  licks  my  face 
and  moans  and  cries  out  against  the  King. 

Becket. 

Better  thy  dog  than  thee.  The  King's  courts 
would  use  thee  worse  than  thy  dog — they  are  too 
bloody.  Were  the  Church  king,  it  would  be  other- 
wise. Poor  beast !  poor  beast  !  set  him  down.  I  will 
bind  up  his  wounds  with  my  napkin.  Give  him  a 
bone,  give  him  a  bone  !  Who  misuses  a  dog  would 
misuse  a  child — they  cannot  speak  for  themselves. 
Past  help  !  his  paws  are  past  help.     God  help  him  ! 

Enter  the  Beggars  {and  seat  themselves  at  the  Tables). 
Becket  and  Herbert  wait  upon  them. 

1ST  Beggar. 
Swine,  sheep,  ox — here's  a  French  supper.     When 
thieves  fall  out,  honest  men 

2ND  Beggar. 
Is  the  Archbishop  a  thief  who  gives  thee  thy  supper? 


SCENE  IV.  BECKET.  83 

1ST  Beggar. 

Well,  then,  how  does  it  go?  When  honest  men 
foil  out,  thieves — no,  it  can't  be  that. 

2ND  Beggar. 

Who  stole  the  widow's  one  sitting  hen  o'  Sunday, 
when  she  was  at  mass  ? 

1ST  Beggar. 

Come,  come  !  thou  hadst  thy  share  on  her.  Sitting 
hen  !  Our  Lord  Becket's  our  great  sitting-hen  cock, 
and  we  shouldn't  ha'  been  sitting  here  if  the  barons 
and  bishops  hadn't  been  a-sitting  on  the  Archbishop. 

Becket. 

Ay,  the  princes  sat  in  judgment  against  me,  and 
the  Lord  hath  prepared  your  table — Sederunt prmcipes^ 
ederunt  paupereSs 

A  Voice. 
Becket,  beware  of  the  knife  ! 

Becket, 
Who  spoke  ? 

3RD  Beggar. 

Nobody,  my  lord.     What's  that,  my  lord  ? 


84  BECKET.  ACT  i. 


Venison. 
Venison  ? 


Becket. 
3RD  Beggar. 


Becket. 
Buck ;  deer,  as  you  call  it. 

3RD  Beggar. 

King's  meat !  By  the  Lord,  won't  we  pray  for  your 
lordship  ! 

Becket. 

And,  my  children,  your  prayers  will  do  more  for 
me  in  the  day  of  peril  that  dawns  darkly  and  drearily 
over  the  house  of  God — yea,  and  in  the  day  of  judg- 
ment also,  than  the  swords  of  the  craven  sycophants 
would  have  done  had  they  remained  true  to  me  whose 
bread  they  have  partaken.  I  must  leave  you  to  your 
banquet.  Feed,  feast,  and  be  merry.  Herbert,  for 
the  sake  of  the  Church  itself,  if  not  for  my  own,  I 
must  fly  to  France  to-night.     Come  with  me. 

{^Exit  with  Herbert. 

3RD  Beggar. 

Here — all  of  you — my  lord's  health  {they  d?-ink). 
Well — if  that  isn't  goodly  wine 


SCENE  IV.  BECKET.  85 

1ST  Beggar. 
Then  there  isn't  a  goodly  wench  to  sen'C  him  with 
it :  they  were  fighting  for  her  to-day  in  the  street. 

3RD  Beggar. 
Peace  ! 

1ST  Beggar. 
The  black  sheep  baaed  to  the  miller's  ewe-lamb, 

The  miller's  away  for  to-night. 
Black  sheep,  quoth  she,  too  black  a  sin  for  me. 

And  what  said  the  black  sheep,  my  masters  ? 

We  can  make  a  black  sin  white. 

3RD  Beggar. 

Peace  ! 

1ST  Beggar. 

*Ewe  lamb,  ewe  lamb,  I  am  here  by  the  dam.' 
But  the  miller  came  home  that  night. 

And  so  dusted  his  back  with  the  meal  in  his  sack, 
That  he  made  the  black  sheep  white. 

3RD  Beggar. 
Be  we  not  of  the  family  ?  be  we  not  a-supping  with 
the  head  of  the  family?   be  we  not  in  my  lord's  own 
refractory?     Out  from  among  us  ;   thou  art  our  black 
sheep. 


86  BECKET.  act  i. 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

FiTZURSE, 

Sheep,  said  he  ?  And  sheep  without  the  shepherd, 
too.  Where  is  my  lord  Archbishop  ?  Thou  the  lustiest 
and  lousiest  of  this  Cain's  brotherhood,  answer. 

3RD  Beggar, 

With  Cain's  answer,  my  lord.  Am  I  his  keeper? 
Thou  shouldst  call  him  Cain,  not  me. 

FiTZURSE. 

So  I  do,  for  he  would  murder  his  brother  the  State. 

3RD  Beggar  {rising  and  advancitig) . 

No  my  lord ;  but  because  the  Lord  hath  set  his 
mark  upon  him  that  no  man  should  murder  him. 

FiTZURSE. 

Where  is  he  ?  where  is  he  ? 

3RD  Beggar. 

With  Cain  belike,  in  the  land  of  Nod,  or  in  the 
land  of  France  for  aught  I  know. 

FiTZURSE. 

France  !     Ha  !     De  Morville,  Tracy,  Brito — fled  is 


SCENE  IV.  BECKET.  87 

he  ?     Cross  swords  all  of  you  !  swear  to  follow  him  ! 
Remember  the  Queen  ! 

\The  four  Knights  cross  their  swords, 

De  Brito. 
They  mock  us  ;  he  is  here. 

\_All  the  Beggars  rise  and  advance  upon  them. 

FrrzuRSE. 
Come,  you  filthy  knaves,  let  us  pass. 

3RD  Beggar. 

Nay,  my  lord,  let  us  pass.  We  be  a-going  home 
after  our  supper  in  all  humbleness,  my  lord  ;  for  the 
Archbishop  loves  humbleness,  my  lord  ;  and  though 
we  be  fifty  to  four,  we  daren't  fight  you  with  our 
crutches,  my  lord.  There  now,  if  thou  hast  not  laid 
hands  upon  me  !  and  my  fellows  know  that  I  am  all 
one  scale  like  a  fish.  I  pray  God  I  haven't  given 
thee  my  leprosy,  my  lord. 

[FiTZURSE  shrinks  from  him  and  another  presses 
upon  De  Brito. 

De  Brito. 
Away,  dog  ! 

4TH  Beggar. 
And  I  was  bit  by  a  mad  dog  o'  Friday,  an'  I  be  half 


88  BECKET.  act  i. 

dog  already  by  this  token,  that  tho'  I  can  drink  wine  I 
cannot  bide  water,  my  lord  ;  and  I  want  to  bite,  I  want 
to  bite,  and  they  do  say  the  very  breath  catches. 

De  Brito. 

Insolent  clown.     Shall  I  smite  him  with  the  edge 

of  the  sword  ? 

De  Morville. 

No,  nor  with  the  flat  of  it  either.  Smite  the 
shepherd  and  the  sheep  are  scattered.  Smite  the 
sheep  and  the  shepherd  will  excommunicate  thee. 

De  Brito. 
Yet  my  fingers  itch  to  beat  him  into  nothing. 

5TH  Beggar. 

So  do  mine,  my  lord.  I  was  born  with  it,  and 
sulphur  won't  bring  it  out  o'  me.  But  for  all  that  the 
Archbishop  washed  my  feet  o'  Tuesday.  He  likes  it, 
my  lord. 

6th  Beggar. 

And  see  here,  my  lord,  this  rag  fro'  the  gangrene 
i'  my  leg.  It's  humbling — it  smells  o'  human  natur'. 
Wilt  thou  smell  it,  my  lord  ?  for  the  Archbishop  likes 
the  smell  on  it,  my  lord  ;  for  I  be  his  lord  and  mastei 
i'  Christ,  my  lord. 


scene  iv.  becket.  89 

De  Morville. 

Faugh  !  we  shall  all  be  poisoned.     Let  us  go. 

\They  draw  back,  ^EGGk^s  following. 

7TH  Beggar. 

My  lord,  I  ha'  three  sisters  a-dying  at  home  o'  the 
sweating  sickness.     They  be  dead  while  I  be  a-supping. 

8th  Beggar. 

And  I  ha'  nine  darters  i'  the  spital  that  be  dead  ten 
times  o'er  i'  one  day  wi'  the  putrid  fever ;  and  I  bring 
the  taint  on  it  along  wi'  me,  for  the  Archbishop  likes 
it,  my  lord. 

[Pressing  upon  the  Knights  till  they  disappear 
thro''  the  door. 

3RD  Beggar. 

Crutches,  and  itches,  and  leprosies,  and  ulcers,  and 
gangrenes,  and  running  sores,  praise  ye  the  Lord,  for 
to-night  ye  have  saved  our  Archbishop  ! 

1ST  Beggar. 
I'll  go  back  again.     I  hain't  half  done  yet. 

Herbert  of  Bosham   {entering^. 
My  friends,  the  Archbishop  bids  you  good-night. 


90  BECKET.  act  i. 

He  hath  retired  to  rest,  and  being  in  great  jeopardy 
of  his  life,  he  hath  made  his  bed  between  the  altars, 
from  whence  he  sends  me  to  bid  you  this  night  pray 
for  him  who  hath  fed  you  in  the  wilderness. 

3RD  Beggar. 

So  we  will — so  we  will,  I  warrant  thee.  Becket 
shall  be  king,  and  the  Holy  Father  shall  be  king,  and 
the  world  shall  live  by  the  King's  venison  and  the 
bread  o'  the  Lord,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  poor 
for  ever.  Hurrah  !  Vive  le  Roy  !  That's  the  EngHsh 
of  it. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Rosamund's  Bower.  A  Garden  of  Flowers. 
In  the  midst  a  bank  of  wild-flowers  with  a  bench 
before  it. 

Voices  heard  singing  among  the  trees 

Duet. 

1.  Is  it  the  wind  of  the  dawn  that  I  hear  in  the  pine 

overhead  ? 

2.  No ;   but  the  voice  of  the  deep  as  it  hollows  the 

cliffs  of  the  land. 

1.  Is  there  a  voice  coming  up  with  the  voice  of  the 

deep  from  the  strand, 
One  coming  up  with  a  song  in  the  flush  of  the 
glimmering  red  ? 

2.  Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming  up  with  the 

sun  from  the  sea. 

1.  Love  that  can  shape  or  can  shatter  a  life  till  the 

life  shall  have  fled  ? 

2.  Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love  that  can  lift  up  a 

life  from  the  dead. 
91 


92  BECKET.  ACT  11. 

1.  Keep  him  away  from  the  lone  little  isle.     Let  us 

be,  let  us  be. 

2.  Nay,  let  him  make  it  his  own,  let  him  reign  in  it — 

he,  it  is  he. 
Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming  up  with  the 
sun  from  the  sea. 

Enter  Henry  and  Rosamund. 

Rosamund. 
Be  friends  mth  him  again — I  do  beseech  thee. 

Henry. 
With  Becket?     I  have  but  one  hour  with  thee — 
Sceptre  and  crozier  clashing,  and  the  mitre 
Grappling  the  crown — and  when  I  flee  from  this 
For  a  gasp  of  freer  air,  a  breathing-while 
To  rest  upon  thy  bosom  and  forget  him — 
Why  thou,  my  bird,  thou  pipest  Becket,  Becket — 
Yea,  thou  my  golden  dream  of  Love's  own  bower, 
Must  be  the  nightmare  breaking  on  my  peace 
With  '  Becket.' 

Rosamund. 
O  my  life's  hfe,  not  to  smile 
Is  all  but  death  to  me.     My  sun,  no  cloud  ! 
Let  there  not  be  one  frown  in  this  one  hour. 
Out  of  the  many  thine,  let  this  be  mine  ! 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  93 

Look  rather  thou  all-royal  as  when  first 
I  met  thee. 

Henry. 
Where  was  that? 

Rosamund. 

Forgetting  that 
Forgets  me  too. 

Henry. 

Nay,  I  remember  it  well. 
There  on  the  moors. 

Rosamund. 

And  in  a  narrow  path. 
A  plover  flew  before  thee.     Then  I  saw 
Thy  high  black  steed  among  the  flaming  furze, 
Like  sudden  night  in  the  main  glare  of  day. 
And  from  that  height  something  was  said  to  me 
I  knew  not  what. 

Henry. 

I  ask'd  the  way. 


So  I  lost  mine. 


Rosamund. 

I  think  so. 

Henry. 
Thou  wast  too  shamed  to  answer. 


94  BECKET.  act  ii. 

Rosamund, 
Too  scared — so  young  ! 

Henry, 

The  rosebud  of  my  rose  !— 
Well,  well,  no  more  of  him — I  have  sent  his  folk, 
His  kin,  all  his  belongings,  overseas ; 
Age,  orphans,  and  babe-breasting  mothers— all 
By  hundreds  to  him— there  to  beg,  starve,  die — 
So  that  the  fool  King  Louis  feed  them  not. 
The  man  shall  feel  that  I  can  strike  him  yet. 

Rosamund. 
Babes,  orphans,  mothers  !  is  that  royal.  Sire  ? 

Henry. 

And  I  have  been  as  royal  with  the  Church. 
He  shelter'd  in  the  Abbey  of  Pontigny. 
There  wore  his  time  studying  the  canon  law 
To  work  it  against  me.     But  since  he  cursed 
My  friends  at  Veselay,  I  have  let  them  know, 
That  if  they  keep  him  longer  as  their  guest, 
I  scatter  all  their  cowls  to  all  the  hells. 

Rosamund. 
And  is  that  altogether  royal? 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  95 

Henry. 

Traitress  ! 

Rosamund, 
A  faithful  traitress  to  thy  royal  fame. 

Henry. 
Fame  !  what  care  I  for  fame?     Spite,  ignorance,  envy, 
Yea,  honesty  too,  paint  her  what  way  they  will. 
Fame  of  to-day  is  infamy  to-morrow  ; 
Infamy  of  to-day  is  fame  to-morrow  ; 
And  round  and  round  again.    What  matters  ?    Royal— 
I  mean  to  leave  the  royalty  of  my  crown 
Unlessen'd  to  mine  heirs. 

Rosamund. 

Still — thy  fame  too  : 
I  say  that  should  be  royal. 

Henry. 

And  I  say, 
I  care  not  for  thy  saying. 

Rosamund. 

And  I  say, 
I  care  not  for  thy  saying.     A  greater  King 
Than  thou  art.  Love,  who  cares  not  for  the  word. 
Makes  'care  not'— care.    There  have  I  spoken  true? 


96  BECKET.  act  il. 

Henry. 

Care  dwell  with  me  for  ever,  when  I  cease 
To  care  for  thee  as  ever  ! 

Rosamund. 

No  need  !  no  need  !  .  .  . 
There   is   a  bench.     Come,  wilt    thou   sit?  ,  .  .  My 

bank 
Of  wild-flowers  \}ie  sits\ .     At  thy  feet ! 

[^S/ie  sits  at  his  feet. 

Henry. 

I  bad  them  clear 
A  royal  pleasaunce  for  thee,  in  the  wood, 
Not  leave  these  countryfolk  at  court. 

Rosamund. 

I  brought  them 
In  from  the  wood,  and  set  them  here.     I  love  them 
More  than  the  garden  flowers,  that  seem  at  most 
Sweet  guests,  or  foreign  cousins,  not  half  speaking 
The  language  of  the  land.     I  love  the^n  too, 
Yes.     But,  my  liege,  I  am  sure,  of  all  the  roses — 
Shame  fall  on  those  who  gave  it  a  dog's  name — 
This  wild  one  {picking  a  briar-rose) — nay,  I  shall  not 

prick  myself — 
Is  sweetest.     Do  but  smell ! 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  97 

Henry. 

Thou  rose  of  the  world  ! 

Thou  rose  of  all  the  roses  ! 

\_Muttering. 

I  am  not  worthy  of  her — this  beast-body 
That  God  has  plunged  my  soul  in — I,  that  taking 
The  Fiend's  advantage  of  a  throne,  so  long 
Have  wander'd  among  women;,— a  foul  stream 
Thro'  fever-breeding  levels, — at  her  side, 
Among  these  happy  dales,  run  clearer,  drop 
The  mud  I  carried,  like  yon  brook,  and  glass 
The  faithful  face  of  heaven — 

\Looking  at  her,  and  unconsciously  aloud, 
— thine  !  thine  1 

Rosamund. 

I  know  it. 

Henry  ( m  u  tiering) . 
Not  hers !    We  have  but  one  bond,  her  hate  of  Becket. 

RosARiuND  {Jialf  hearing) . 
Nay  !  nay  !  what  art  thou  muttering  ?    /  hate  Becket  ? 

Henry  {muttering^. 

A  sane  and  natural  loathing  for  a  soul 
Purer,  and  truer  and  nobler  than  herself; 
And  mine  a  bitterer  illegitimate  hate, 
A  bastard  hate  born  of  a  former  love. 

VOL.   VI.  H 


98  BECKET.  act  ii. 

Rosamund. 

My  fault  to  name  him  !     O  let  the  hand  of  one 

To  whom  thy  voice  is  all  her  music,  stay  it 

But  for  a  breath.  {_Puts  her  hand  before  his  lips. 

Speak  only  of  thy  love. 
Why  there— like  some  loud  beggar  at  thy  gate— 
The  happy  boldness  of  this  hand  hath  won  it 
Love's  alms,  thy  kiss  {looking  at  her  /(^w^)— Sacred  ! 
I'll  kiss  it  too.  {^Kissing  it. 

There  !  wherefore  dost  thou  so  peruse  it?     Nay, 
There  may  be  crosses  in  my  Hne  of  life. 

Henry. 

Not  half  her  hand— no  hand  to  mate  with  her, 
If  it  should  come  to  that. 

Rosamund. 

With  her?  with  whom? 

Henry. 

Life  on  the  hand  is  naked  gipsy-stuff; 

Life  on  the  face,  the  brows— clear  innocence  ! 

Vein'd  marble — not  a  furrow  yet — and  hers 

S^Muttering. 

Crost  and  recrost,  a  venomous  spider's  web 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  99 

Rosamund  {springi?ig  up) . 

Out  of  the  cloud,  my  Sun — out  of  the  echpse 
Narrowing  my  golden  hour  ! 

Henry. 

O  Rosamund, 
I  would  be  true — would  tell  thee  all — and  something 
I  had  to  say — I  love  thee  none  the  less — 
Which  will  so  vex  thee. 

Rosamund. 

Something  against  tne  ? 

Henry. 

No,  no,  against  myself. 

Rosamund. 

I  will  not  hear  it. 
Come,  come,  mine  hour  !     I  bargain  for  mine  hour. 
I'll  call  thee  little  Geoffrey. 

Henry. 

Call  him  ! 

Rosamund. 

Geoffrey  ! 
\^Enter  Geoffrey. 


loo  BECKET.  ACT  ii. 

Henry. 
How  the  boy  grows  ! 

Rosamund. 

Ay,  and  his  brows  are  thine ; 
The  mouth  is  only  Clifford,  my  dear  father. 

Geoffrey. 
My  liege,  what  hast  thou  brought  me  ? 

Henry. 

Venal  imp  ! 
What  say'st  thou  to  the  Chancellorship  of  England? 

Geoffrey. 
O  yes,  my  liege. 

Henry. 
*  O  yes,  my  liege  ! '     He  speaks 
As  if  it  were  a  cake  of  gingerbread. 

Dost  thou  know,  my  boy,  what  it  is  to  be  Chancellor 
of  England  ? 

Geoffrey. 
Something  good,  or  thou  wouldst  not  give  it  me. 

Henry. 
It  is,  my  boy,  to  side  with  the  King  when  Chan- 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  loi 

cellor,  and  then  to  be  made  Archbishop  and  go  against 
the  King  who  made  him,  and  turn  the  world  upside 
down. 

Geoffrey. 

I  won't  have  it  then.  Nay,  but  give  it  me,  and  I 
promise  thee  not  to  turn  the  world  upside  down. 

Henry  {giving  him  a  ball) . 

Here  is  a  ball,  my  boy,  thy  world,  to  turn  anyway 
and  play  with  as  thou  wilt — which  is  more  than  I  can 
do  with  mine.     Go  try  it,  play.  \^Exit  Geoffrey. 

A  pretty  lusty  boy. 

Rosamund. 
So  like  to  thee ; 


Like  to  be  liker. 


Henry. 
Not  in  my  chin,  I  hope  ! 


That  threatens  double. 

Rosamund. 

Thou  art  manlike  perfect. 

Henry. 

Ay,  ay,  no  doubt ;  and  were  I  humpt  behind, 
Thou'dst  say  as  much — the  goodly  way  of  women 


I02  BECKET.  ACT  11. 

Who  love,  for  which  I  love  them.     May  God  grant 
No  ill  befall  or  him  or  thee  when  I 
Am  gone. 

Rosamund. 

Is  he  thy  enemy  ? 

Henry. 

He?  who?  ay  ! 

Rosamund. 
Thine  enemy  knows  the  secret  of  my  bower. 

Henry. 
And  I  could  tear  him  asunder  with  wild  horses 
Before  he  would  betray  it.     Nay — no  fear  ! 
More  like  is  he  to  excommunicate  me. 

Rosamund. 

And  I  would  creep,  crawl  over  knife-edge  flint 
Barefoot,  a  hundred  leagues,  to  stay  his  hand 
Before  he  flash'd  the  bolt. 

Henry. 

And  when  he  flash'd  it 
Shrink  from  me,  like  a  daughter  of  the  Church. 

Rosamund. 
Ay,  but  he  will  not. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  103 

Henry. 
Ay!  but  if  he  did? 

Rosamund. 

0  then  !  O  then  !     I  almost  fear  to  say 

That  my  poor  heretic  heart  would  excommunicate 
His  excommunication,  clinging  to  thee 
Closer  than  ever. 

Henry  {raising  Rosamund  and  kissing  her). 

My  brave-hearted  Rose  ! 
Hath  he  ever  been  to  see  thee  ? 

Rosamund. 

Here  ?  not  he. 

And  it  is  so  lonely  here — no  confessor. 

Henry. 
Thou  shalt  confess  all  thy  sweet  sins  to  me. 

Rosamund. 

Besides,  we  came  away  in  such  a  heat, 

1  brought  not  ev'n  my  crucifix. 

Henry. 

Take  this. 

f  Giving  her  the  Crucifix  which  Eleanor  ^-"ae'^  him. 


I04  BECKET.  act  il 

Rosamund. 

O  beautiful !     May  I  have  it  as  mine,  till  mine 
Be  mine  again? 

Henr\  {^throwing  it  round  her-  neck). 
Thine — as  I  am — till  death  ! 

Rosamund. 

Death?  no  !     I'll  have  it  with  me  in  my  shroud, 
And  wake  with  it,  and  show  it  to  all  the  Saints. 

Henry. 

Nay — I  must  go  ;  but  when  thou  layest  thy  lip 
To  this,  remembering  One  who  died  for  thee, 
Remember  also  one  who  lives  for  thee 
Out  there  in  France  ;  for  I  must  hence  to  brave 
The  Pope,  King  Louis,  and  this  turbulent  priest. 

Rosamund  {kneeling). 

0  by  thy  love  for  me,  all  mine  for  thee. 
Fling  not  thy  soul  into  the  flames  of  hell : 

1  kneel  to  thee — be  friends  with  him  again. 

Henry. 

Look,  look  !  if  litde  Geoffrey  have  not  tost 
His  ball  into  the  brook  !  makes  after  it  too 
To  find  it.     Why,  the  child  will  drown  himself. 


scene  ii.  becket.  105 

Rosamund. 
Geoffrey  !  Geoffrey  !  [Exeunt. 


Scene  II. — Montmirail.  '  The  Meeting  of  the  Kings.'' 
John  of  Oxford  and  Henry.  Crowd  in  the 
distance. 

John  of  Oxford. 
You  have  not  crown'd  young  Henry  yet,  my  liege  ? 

Henry. 

Crown'd  !  by  God's  eyes,  we  will  not  have  him  crown'd. 

I  spoke  of  late  to  the  boy,  he  answer'd  me, 

As  if  he  wore  the  crown  already — No, 

We  will  not  have  him  crown'd. 

'Tis  true  what  Becket  told  me,  that  the  mother 

Would  make  him  play  his  kingship  against  mine. 

John  of  Oxford. 
Not  have  him  crown'd  ? 

Henry. 

Not  now — not  yet !  and  Becket — 
Becket  should  crown  him  were  he  crown'd  at  all : 
But,  since  we  would  be  lord  of  our  own  manor, 


io6  BECKET.  act  ii. 

This  Canterbury,  like  a  wounded  deer, 

Has  fled  our  presence  and  our  feeding-grounds. 

John  of  Oxford. 

Cannot  a  smooth  tongue  lick  him  whole  again 
To  serve  your  will  ? 

Henry. 
He  hates  my  will,  not  me. 

John  of  Oxford. 
There's  York,  my  Hege. 

Henry. 

But  England  scarce  would  hold 
Young  Henry  king,  if  only  crown'd  by  York, 
And  that  would  stilt  up  York  to  twice  himself. 
There  is  a  movement  yonder  in  the  crowd — 
See  if  our  pious — what  shall  I  call  him,  John? — 
Husband-in-law,  our  smooth-shorn  suzerain. 
Be  yet  within  the  field. 

John  of  Oxford. 

I  will.  \Exit, 

Henry. 

Ay!  Ay! 

Mince  and  go  back  1  his  poUtic  Holiness 


SCENE  11.  BECKET.  107 

Hath  all  but  climb'd  the  Roman  perch  again, 
And  we  shall  hear  him  presently  with  clapt  wing 
Crow  over  Barbarossa — at  last  tongue-free 
To  blast  my  realms  with  excommunication 
And  interdict.     I  must  patch  up  a  peace — 
A  piece  in  this  long-tugged-at,  threadbare-worn 
Quarrel  of  Crown  and  Church — to  rend  again. 
His  Holiness  cannot  steer  straight  thro'  shoals, 
Nor  I.     The  citizen's  heir  hath  conquer'd  me 
For  the  moment.     So  we  make  our  peace  with  him. 

\_Entcr  Louis. 
Brother  of  France,  what  shall  be  done  with  Becket? 

Louis. 

The  holy  Thomas  !     Brother,  you  have  trafifick'd 
Between  the  Emperor  and  the  Pope,  between 
The  Pope  and  Antipope — a  perilous  game 
For  men  to  play  with  God. 

Henry. 

Ay,  ay,  good  brother, 
They  call  you  the  Monk- King. 

Louis. 

Who  calls  me?  she 
That  was  my  wife,  now  yours  ?     You  have  her  Kuchy, 
The  point  you  aim'd  at,  and  pray  God  she  prove 


io8  BECKET.  act  ii. 

True  wife  to  you.     You  have  had  the  better  of  us 
In  secular  matters. 

Henry. 

Come,  confess,  good  brother, 
You  did  your  best  or  worst  to  keep  her  Duchy. 
Only  the  golden  Leopard  printed  in  it 
Such  hold-fast  claws  that  you  perforce  again 
Shrank  into  France.     Tut,  tut  !  did  we  convene 
This  conference  but  to  babble  of  our  wives  ? 
They  are  plagues  enough  in-door. 

Louis. 

We  fought  in  the  East, 
And  felt  the  sun  of  Antioch'  scald  our  mail. 
And  push'd  our  lances  into  Saracen  hearts. 
We  never  hounded  on  the  State  at  home 
To  spoil  the  Church. 

Henry. 
How  should  you  see  this  rightly  ? 

Louis. 

Well,  well,  no  more  !     I  am  proud  of  my  '  Monk- King,' 
Whoever  named  me ;  and,  brother.  Holy  Church 
May  rock,  but  will  not  wreck,  nor  our  Archbishop 


SCENE  II  BECKET.  109 

Stagger  on  the  slope  decks  for  any  rough  sea 
Blown  by  the  breath  of  kings.     We  do  forgive  you 
For  aught  you  wrought  against  us. 

[Henry  holds  up  his  hand. 
Nay,  I  pray  you. 
Do  not  defend  yourself     You  will  do  much 
To  rake  out  all  old  dying  heats,  if  you, 
At  my  requesting,  will  but  look  into 
The  wrongs  you  did  him,  and  restore  his  kin, 
Reseat  hini  on  his  throne  of  Canterbury, 
Be,  both,  the  friends  you  were. 

Henry. 

The  friends  we  were  ! 
Co-mates  we  were,  and  had  our  sport  together, 
Co-kings  we  were,  and  made  the  laws  together. 
The  world  had  never  seen  the  like  before. 
You  are  too  cold  to  know  the  fashion  of  it. 
Well,  well,  we  will  be  gentle  with  him,  gracious — 
Most  gracious. 

Enter  Becket,  after  him,  John  of  Oxford,  Roger 
OF  York,  Gilbert  Foliot,  De  Broc,  Fitzurse, 
etc. 

Only  that  the  rift  he  made 
May  close  between  us,  here  I  am  wholly  king, 
The  word  should  come  from  him. 


no  BECKET.  ACT  ii. 

Becket  {kneeling). 

Then,  my  dear  liege, 
I  here  deliver  all  this  controversy 
Into  your  royal  hands. 

Henry. 

Ah,  Thomas,  Thomas, 
Thou  art  thyself  again,  Thomas  again. 

Becket  {rising). 
Saving  God's  honour  ! 

Henry. 

Out  upon  thee,  man  ! 
Saving  the  Devil's  honour,  his  yes  and  no. 
Knights,     bishops,    earls,    this     London     spawn— by 

Mahound, 
I  had  sooner  have  been  born  a  Mussulman — 
Less  clashing  with  their  priests — 
I  am  half-way  down  the  slope — will  no  man  stay  me  ? 
I  dash  myself  to  pieces — I  stay  myself— 
Puff — it  is  gone.     You,  Master  Becket,  you 
That  owe  to  me  your  power  over  me — 
Nay,  nay — 

Brother  of  France,  you  have  taken,  cherish'd  him 
Who  thief-like  fled  from  his  own  church  by  night. 
No  man  pursuing.     I  would  have  had  him  back. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  Ill 

Take  heed  he  do  not  turn  and  rend  you  too: 

For  whatsoever  may  displease  him — that 

Is  clean  against  God's  honour — a  shift,  a  trick 

Whereby  to  challenge,  face  me  out  of  all 

My  regal  rights.     Yet,  yet — that  none  may  dream 

I  go  against  God's  honour — ay,  or  himself 

In  any  reason,  choose 

A  hundred  of  the  wisest  heads  from  England, 

A  hundred,  too,  from  Normandy  and  Anjou: 

Let  these  decide  on  what  was  customary 

In  olden  days,  and  all  the  Church  of  France 

Decide  on  their  decision,  I  am  content. 

More,  what  the  mightiest  and  the  holiest 

Of  all  his  predecessors  may  have  done 

Ev'n  to  the  least  and  meanest  of  my  own, 

Let  him  do  the  same  to  me — I  am  content. 

Louis. 
Ay,  ay !  the  King  humbles  himself  enough. 

Becket. 

{Aside.)  Words !  he  will  wriggle  out  of  them  like  an  eel 
When  the  time  serves.     (Aloud.)     My  lieges  and  my 

lords. 
The  thanks  of  Holy  Church  are  due  to  those 
That  went  before  us  for  their  work,  which  we 
Inheriting  reap  an  easier  harvest.     Yet 


112  BECKET.  ACT  IL 

Loms. 

My  lord,  will  you  be  greater  than  the  Saints, 

More  than  St.  Peter?  whom what  is  it  you  doubt? 

Behold  your  peace  at  hand. 

Becket. 

I  say  that  those 
Who  went  before  us  did  not  wholly  clear 
The  deadly  growths  of  earth,  which  Hell's  own  heat 
So  dwelt  on  that  they  rose  and  darken' d  Heaven. 
Yet  they  did  much.     Would  God  they  had  torn  up  all 
By  the  hard  root,  which  shoots  again;  our  trial 
Had  so  been  less;  but,  seeing  they  were  men 
Defective  or  excessive,  must  we  follow 
All  that  they  overdid  or  underdid? 
Nay,  if  they  were  defective  as  St.  Peter 
Denying  Christ,  who  yet  defied  the  tyrant. 
We  hold  by  his  defiance,  not  his  defect. 
O  good  son  Louis,  do  not  counsel  me, 
No,  to  suppress  God's  honour  for  the  sake 
Of  any  king  that  breathes.     No,  God  forbid ! 

Henry. 

No !  God  forbid !  and  turn  me  Mussulman ! 
No  God  but  one,  and  Mahound  is  his  prophet. 
But  for  your  Christian,  look  you,  you  shall  have 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  IIS 

None  other  God  but  me — me,  Thomas,  son 

Of  Gilbert  Becket,  London  merchant.     Out! 

I  hear  no  more.  \_Exit. 

Louis. 

Our  brother's  anger  puts  him, 

Poor  man,  beside  himself — not  wise.     My  lord. 

We  have  claspt  your  cause,  believing  that  our  brother 

Had  wrong'd  you;  but  this  day  he  proffer'd  peace. 

You  will  have  war;  and  tho'  we  grant  the  Church 

King  over  this  world's  kings,  yet,  my  good  lord, 

We  that  are  kings  are  something  in  this  world, 

And  so  we  pray  you,  draw  yourself  from  under 

The  wings  of  France.     We  shelter  you  no  more. 

\_Exii. 
John  of  Oxford. 

I  am  glad  that  France  hath  scouted  him  at  last : 

I  told  the  Pope  what  manner  of  man  he  was.     \_Exit. 

Roger  of  York. 

Yea,  since  he  flouts  the  will  of  either  realm, 

Let  either  cast  him  away  like  a  dead  dog!         \_Exii. 

FOLIOT. 

Yea,  let  a  stranger  spoil  his  heritage, 

And  let  another  take  his  bishoprick !  \Exit, 

VOL.   VI.  I 


114  BECKET.  ACT  ii 

De  Broc. 
Our  castle,  my  lord,  belongs  to  Canterbury. 
I  pray  you  come  and  take  it.  {Exit. 

FiTZURSE. 

When  you  will.     {Exit. 
Becket. 

Cursed  be  John  of  Oxford,  Roger  of  York, 
And  Gilbert  Foliot !  cursed  those  De  Brocs 
That  hold  our  Saltvvood  Castle  from  our  see ! 
Cursed  Fitzurse,  and  all  the  rest  of  them 
That  sow  this  hate  between  my  lord  and  me ! 

Voices  frojn  the  Crowd. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  Archbishop,  who  hath  with- 
stood two  Kings  to  their  faces  for  the  honour  of  God. 

Becket. 

Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings,  praise ! 
I  thank  you,  sons;  when  kings  but  hold  by  crowns, 
The  crowd  that  hungers  for  a  crown  in  Heaven 
Is  my  true  king. 

Herbert. 

Thy  true  King  bad  thee  be 
A  fisher  of  men;  thou  hast  them  in  thy  net. 


SCENE  II.  BECKEr.  115 

Becket. 

I  am  too  like  the  King  here;  both  of  us 

Too  headlong  for  our  office.     Better  have  been 

A  fisherman  at  Bosham,  my  good  Herbert, 

Thy  birthplace — the  sea-creek — the  petty  rill 

That  falls  into  it — the  green  field — the  gray  church — 

The  simple  lobster-basket,  and  the  mesh — 

The  more  or  less  of  daily  labour  done — 

The  pretty  gaping  bills  in  the  home-nest 

Piping  for  bread — the  daily  want  supplied — 

The  daily  pleasure  to  supply  it. 

Herbert. 

Ah,  Thomas, 

You  had  not  borne  it,  no,  not  for  a  day. 

Becket. 
Well,  maybe,  no. 

Herbert. 
But  bear  with  Walter  Map, 
For  here  he  comes  to  comment  on  the  time. 

Enter  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map. 
Pity,  my  lord,  that  you  have  quenched  the  warmth 


Il6  BECKET.  ACT  II. 

of  France  toward  you,  tho'  His  Holiness,  after  much 
smouldering  and  smoking,  be  kindled  again  upon 
your  quarter. 

Becket. 

Ay,  if  he  do  not  end  in  smoke  again. 

Walter  Map. 

My  lord,  the  fire,  when  first  kindled,  said  to  the 
smoke,  'Go  up,  my  son,  straight  to  Heaven.'  And 
the  smoke  said,  'I  go; '  but  anon  the  North-east  took 
and  turned  him  South-west,  then  the  South-west  turned 
him  North-east,  and  so  of  the  other  winds;  but  it  was 
in  him  to  go  up  straight  if  the  time  had  been  quieter. 
Your  lordship  affects  the  unwavering  perpendicular; 
but  His  Holiness,  pushed  one  way  by  the  Empire  and 
another  by  England,  if  he  move  at  all,  Heaven  stay 
him,  is  fain  to  diagonalise. 

Herbert. 

Diagonalise!  thou  art  a  word-monger! 
Our  Thomas  never  will  diagonalise. 
Thou  art  a  jester  and  a  verse-maker. 
Diagonalise ! 

Walter  Map, 

Is  the  world  any  the  worse  for  my  verses  if  the 
Latin  rhvmes  be  rolled  out  from  a  full  mouth?  or 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  117 

any  harm  done  to  the  people  if  my  jest  be  in  defence 
of  the  Truth? 

Becket. 

Ay,  if  the  jest  be  so  done  that  the  people 
Delight  to  wallow  in  the  grossness  of  it, 
Till  Truth  herself  be  shamed  of  her  defender. 
Non  defensoribus  istis,  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map. 

Is  that  my  case  ?  so  if  the  city  be  sick,  and  I  can- 
not call  the  kennel  sweet,  your  lordship  would  suspend 
me  from  verse-writing,  as  you  suspended  yourself 
after  sub-writing  to  the  customs. 

Becket. 
I  pray  God  pardon  mine  infirmity. 

Walter  Map. 

Nay,  my  lord,  take  heart;  for  tho'  you  suspended 
yourself,  the  Pope  let  you  down  again;  and  tho'  you 
suspend  Foliot  or  another,  the  Pope  will  not  leave 
them  in  suspense,  for  the  Pope  himself  is  always  in 
suspense,  like  Mahound's  cofifin  hung  between  heaven 
and  earth — always  in  suspense,  like  the  scales,  till 
the  weight  of  Germany  or  the  gold  of  England  brings 
one  of  them  down  to  the  dust — always  in  suspense, 


ii8  BECKET.  ACT  n. 

like  the  tail  of  the  horologe — to  and  fro — tick-tack 
— we  make  the  time,  we  keep  the  time,  ay,  and  we 
serve  the  time;  for  I  have  heard  say  that  if  you  boxed 
the  Pope's  ears  with  a  purse,  you  might  stagger  him, 
but  he  would  pocket  the  purse.  No  saying  of  mine 
— Jocelyn  of  Salisbury.  But  the  King  hath  bought 
half  the  College  of  Redhats.  He  warmed  to  you  to- 
day, and  you  have  chilled  him  again.  Yet  you  both 
love  God.  Agree  with  him  quickly  again,  even  for 
the  sake  of  the  Church.  My  one  grain  of  good  coun- 
sel which  you  will  not  swallow.  I  hate  a  split  between 
old  friendship  as  I  hate  the  dirty  gap  in  the  face  of 
a  Cistercian  monk,  that  will  swallow  anything.  Fare- 
well. \^Exit. 

Becket. 

Map  scoffs  at  Rome.     I  all  but  hold  with  Map. 
Save  for  myself  no  Rome  were  left  in  England, 
All  had  been  his.     Why  should  this  Rome,  this  Rome, 
Still  choose  Barabbas  rather  than  the  Christ, 
Absolve  the  left-hand  thief  and  damn  the  right? 
Take  fees  of  tyranny,  wink  at  sacrilege. 
Which  even  Peter  had  not  dared?  condemn 
The  blameless  exile? — 

Herbert. 

Thee,  thou  holy  Thomas ! 
I  would  that  thou  hadst  been  the  Holy  Father. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  119 

Becket. 

I  would  have  done  my  most  to  keep  Rome  holy, 
I  would  have  made  Rome  know  she  still  is  Rome — 
Who  stands  aghast  at  her  eternal  self 
And  shakes  at  mortal  kings — her  vacillation, 
Avarice,  craft — O  God,  how  many  an  innocent 
Has  left  his  bones  upon  the  way  to  Rome 
Unwept,  uncared  for.     Yea— on  mine  own  self 
The  King  had  had  no  power  except  for  Rome. 
'Tis  not  the  King  who  is  guilty  of  mine  exile, 
But  Rome,  Rome,  Rome ! 

Herbert. 

My  lord,  I  see  this  Louis 
Returning,  ah !  to  drive  thee  from  his  realm. 

Becket. 

He  said  as  much  before.     Thou  art  no  prophet, 
Nor  yet  a  prophet's  son. 

Herbert. 

Whatever  he  say, 
Deny  not  thou  God's  honour  for  a  king. 
The  King  looks  troubled. 

Re-enter  King  Louis. 


i20  becket.  act  ii, 

Louis. 

My  dear  lord  Archbishop, 
I  learn  but  now  that  those  poor  Poitevins, 
That  in  thy  cause  were  stirr'd  against  King  Henry, 
Have  been,  despite  his  kingly  promise  given 
To  our  own  self  of  pardon,  evilly  used 
And  put  to  pain.     I  have  lost  all  trust  in  him. 
The  Church  alone  hath"  eyes-^and  now  I  see 
That  I  was  blind — suffer  the  phrase — surrendering 
God's  honour  to  the  pleasure  of  a  man. 
Forgive  me  and  absolve  me,  holy  father.        \_Kneels. 

Becket. 
Son,  I  absolve  thee  in  the  name  of  God. 

Louis  {rising). 

Return  to  Sens,  where  we  will  care  for  you. 
The  wine  and  wealth  of  all  our  France  are  yours ; 
Rest  in  our  realm,  and  be  at  peace  with  all.  \_Exeuni. 

Voices  from  the  Crowd. 

Long  live  the  good  King  Louis!     God  bless  the 
great  Archbishop ! 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  121 

Re-enter  Henry  and  John  of  Oxford. 

Henry  {lookhig  after  King  Louis  and  Becket). 

Ay,  there  they  go — both  backs  are  tnrn'd  to  me — 
Why  then  I  strike  into  my  former  path 
For  England,  crown  young  Henry  there,  and  make 
Our  waning  Eleanor  all  but  love  me ! 

John, 
Thou  hast  served  me  heretofore  with  Rome — and  well. 
They  call  thee  John  the  Swearer. 

John  of  Oxford. 

For  this  reason, 
That,  being  ever  duteous  to  the  King, 
I  evermore  have  sworn  upon  his  side, 
And  ever  mean  to  do  it. 

Henry  {claps  him  on  the  shoulder). 

Honest  John ! 
To  Rome  again !  the  storm  begins  again. 
Spare  not  thy  tongue !  be  lavish  with  our  coins. 
Threaten  our  junction  with  the  Emperor— flatter 
And  fright  the  Pope — bribe  all  the  Cardinals — leave 
Lateran  and  Vatican  in  one  dust  of  gold — 
Swear  and  unswear,  state  and  misstate  thy  best  1 
I  go  to  have  young  Henry  crown 'd  by  York. 


ACT   III. 

Scene  I. — The  Bower. 
Henry  and  Rosamund. 

Henry. 

All  that  you  say  is  just.     I  cannot  answer  it 
Till  better  times,  when  I  shall  put  away 

Rosamund. 
What  will  you  put  away? 

Henry. 

That  which  you  ask  me 
Till  better  times.     Let  it  content  you  now 
There  is  no  woman  that  I  love  so  well. 

Rosamund. 
No  woman  but  should  be  content  with  that — 

122 


scene  i.  becket.  123 

Henry. 

And  one  fair  child  to  fondle ! 

ROSAMtTND. 

O  yes,  the  child 
We  waited  for  so  long — heaven's  gift  at  last — 
And  how  you  doated  on  him  then !     To-day 
I  almost  fear'd  your  kiss  was  colder — yes — 
But  then  the  child  is  such  a  child.     What  chance 
That  he  should  ever  spread  into  the  man 
Here  in  our  silence?     I  have  done  my  best. 
I  am  not  learn' d. 

Henry. 

I  am  the  King,  his  father, 
And  I  will  look  to  it.     Is  our  secret  ours? 
Have  you  had  any  alarm?  no  stranger? 

Rosamund. 

No. 

The  warder  of  the  bower  hath  given  himself 

Of  late  to  wine.     I  sometimes  think  he  sleeps 

When  he  should  watch;  and  yet  what  fear?  the  people 

Believe  the  wood  enchanted.     No  one  comes, 

Nor  foe  nor  friend;  his  fond  excess  of  wine 

Springs  from  the  loneliness  of  my  poor  bower, 

Which  weighs  even  on  me. 


124  becket.  act  iii. 

Henry. 

Yet  these  tree-towers, 
Their  long  bird-echoing  minster-aisles, — the  voice 
Of  the  perpetual  brook,  these  golden  slopes 
Of  Solomon-shaming  flowers — that  was  your  saying, 
All  pleased  you  so  at  first. 

Rosamund. 

Not  now  so  much. 
My  Anjou  bower  was  scarce  as  beautiful. 
But  you  were  oftener  there.     I  have  none  but  you. 
The  brook's  voice  is  not  yours,  and  no  flower,  not 
The  sun  himself,  should  he  be  changed  to  one. 
Could  shine  away  the  darkness  of  that  gap 
Left  by  the  lack  of  love. 

Henry. 

The  lack  of  love ! 

Rosamund. 

Of  one  we  love.     Nay,  I  would  not  be  bold. 

Yet  hoped  ere  this  you  might 

\_Looks  earnestly  at  him. 

Henry. 

Anything  further? 


SCENE  I.  BE  CKE  T.  125 

Rosamund. 

Only  my  best  bower-maiden  died  of  late, 

And  that  old  priest  whom  John  of  Salisbury  trusted 

Hath  sent  another. 

Henry. 

Secret? 

Rosamund. 

I  but  ask'd  her 
One  question,  and  she  primm'd  her  mouth  and  put 
Her  hands  together — thus — and  said,  God  help  her, 
That  she  was  sworn  to  silence. 

Henry. 

What  did  you  ask  her? 

Rosamund. 
Some  daily  something-nothing. 

Henry. 

Secret,  then? 

Rosamund. 

I  do  not  love  her.     Must  you  go,  my  liege, 
So  suddenly? 


126  BECKET. 

Henry. 
I  came  to  England  suddenly, 
And  on  a  great  occasion  sure  to  wake 
As  great  a  wrath  in  Becket 


ACT  III. 


Always  Becket! 


Rosamund. 

He  always  comes  between  us. 

Henry. 

— And  to  meet  it 
I  needs  must  leave  as  suddenly.     It  is  raining. 
Put  on  your  hood  and  see  me  to  the  bounds. 

\_Exeunt. 
Margery  {singing behind  scene). 
Babble  in  bower 

Under  the  rose ! 
Bee  mustn't  buzz, 

Whoop — but  he  knows. 

Kiss  me,  little  one, 

Nobody  near ! 
Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 

Whoop — you  can  hear. 

Kiss  in  the  bower. 

Tit  on  the  tree  ! 
Bird  mustn't  tell. 

Whoop — he  can  see. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  127 

Enter  Margery. 


I  ha'  been  but  a  week  here  and  I  ha'  seen  what  I 
ha'  seen,  for  to  be  sure  it's  no  more  than  a  week  since 
our  old  Father  Philip  that  has  confessed  our  mother 
for  twenty  years,  and  she  was  hard  put  to  it,  and  to 
speak  truth,  nigh  at  the  end  of  our  last  crust,  and  that 
mouldy,  and  she  cried  out  on  him  to  put  me  forth  in 
the  world  and  to  make  me  a  woman  of  the  world,  and 
to  win  my  own  bread,  whereupon  he  asked  our  mother 
if  I  could  keep  a  quiet  tongue  i'  my  head,  and  not 
speak  till  I  was  spoke  to,  and  I  answered  for  myself 
that  I  never  spoke  more  than  was  needed,  and  he  told 
me  he  would  advance  me  to  the  service  of  a  great  lady, 
and  took  me  ever  so  far  away,  and  gave  me  a  great 
pat  o'  the  cheek  for  a  pretty  wench,  and  said  it  was 
a  pity  to  blindfold  such  eyes  as  mine,  and  such  to  be 
sure  they  be,  but  he  blinded  'em  for  all  that,  and  so 
brought  me  no-hows  as  I  may  say,  and  the  more  shame 
to  him  after  his  promise,  into  a  garden  and  not  into 
the  world,  and  bad  me  whatever  I  saw  not  to  speak 
one  word,  an'  it  'ud  be  well  for  me  in  the  end,  for 
there  were  great  ones  who  would  look  after  me,  and  to 
be  sure  I  ha'  seen  great  ones  to-day — and  then  not  to 
speak  one  word,  for  that's  the  rule  o'  the  garden, 
tho'  to  be  sure  if  I  had  been  Eve  i'  the  garden  I 
shouldn't  ha'  minded  the  apple,  for  what's  an  apple, 


128  BECKET.  ACT  III. 

you  know,  save  to  a  child,  and  I'm  no  child,  but 
more  a  woman  o'  the  world  than  my  lady  here,  and 
I  ha'  seen  what  I  ha'  seen — tho'  to  be  sure  if  I  hadn't 
minded  it  we  should  all  on  us  ha'  had  to  go,  bless  the 
Saints,  wi'  bare  backs,  but  the  backs  'ud  ha'  counte- 
nanced one  another,  and  belike  it  'ud  ha'  been  always 
summer,  and  anyhow  I  am  as  well-shaped  as  my 
lady  here,  and  I  ha'  seen  what  I  ha'  seen,  and  what's 
the  good  of  my  talking  to  myself,  for  here  comes  my 
lady  {enter  Rosamund),  and,  my  lady,  tho'  I  shouldn't 
speak  one  word,  I  wish  you  joy  o'  the  King's 
brother. 

Rosamund. 

What  is  it  you  mean  ? 

Margery. 

I  mean  your  goodman,  your  husband,  my  lady,  for 
I  saw  your  ladyship  a-parting  wi'  him  even  now  i'  the 
coppice,  when  I  was  a-getting  o'  bluebells  for  your 
ladyship's  nose  to  smell  on — and  I  ha'  seen  the  King 
once  at  Oxford,  and  he's  as  like  the  King  as  finger- 
nail to  fingernail,  and  I  thought  at  first  it  was  the 
King,  only  you  know  the  King's  married,  for  King 
Louis 

Rosamund. 
Married ! 


scene  i.  becket.  129 

Margery. 

Years  and  years,  my  lady,  for  her  husband,  King 
Louis 

Rosamund. 
Hush! 

Margery. 

— And  I  thought  if  it  were  the  King's  brother  he 
had  a  better  bride  than  the  King,  for  the  people  do 
say  that  his  is  bad  beyond  all  reckoning,  and 

Rosamund. 
The  people  lie. 

Margery. 

Very  like,  my  lady,  but  most  on  'em  know  an  hon- 
est woman  and  a  lady  when  they  see  her,  and  besides 
they  say,  she  makes  songs,  and  that's  against  her,  for 
I  never  knew  an  honest  woman  that  could  make  songs, 
tho'  to  be  sure  our  mother  'ill  sing  me  old  songs  by 
the  hour,  but  then,  God  help  her,  she  had  'em  from 
her  mother,  and  her  mother  from  her  mother  back 
and  back  for  ever  so  long,  but  none  on  'em  ever  made 
songs,  and  they  were  all  honest. 

Rosamund. 
Go,  you  shall  tell  me  of  her  some  other  time. 

VOL.   VI.  K 


I30  BECKET.  ACT  iii. 

Margery. 

There's  none  so  much  to  tell  on  her,  my  lady,  only 
she  kept  the  seventh  commandment  better  than  some 
I  know  on,  or  I  couldn't  look  your  ladyship  i'  the 
face,  and  she  brew'd  the  best  ale  in  all  Glo'ster,  that 
is  to  say  in  her  time  when  she  had  the  'Crown.' 

Rosamund. 
The  crown !  who  ? 

Margery. 
Mother. 

Rosamund. 

I  mean  her  whom  you  call — fancy — my  husband's 
brother's  wife. 

Margery. 

Oh,  Queen  Eleanor.  Yes,  my  lady;  and  tho'  I  be 
sworn  not  to  speak  a  word,  I  can  tell  you  all  about 

her,  if 

Rosamund. 

No  word  now.  I  am  faint  and  sleepy.  Leave  me. 
Nay — go.     What!  w'"  you  anger  me? 

\_Exit  Margery. 
He  charged  me  not  to  question  any  of  those 
About  me.     Have  I?  no!  she  question'd  me. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  131 

Did  she  not  slander  hun  ?     Should  she  stay  here? 

May  she  not  tempt  me,  being  at  my  side, 

To  question  her  ?     Nay,  can  I  send  her  hence 

Without  his  kingly  leave !     I  am  in  the  dark. 

I  have  lived,  poor  bird,  from  cage  to  cage,  and  known 

Nothing  but  him — ^happy  to  know  no  more, 

So  that  he  loved  me — and  he  loves  me — yes, 

And  bound  me  by  his  love  to  secrecy 

Till  his  own  time. 

Eleanor,  Eleanor,  have  I 
Not  heard  ill  things  of  her  in  France?     Oh,  she's 
The  Queen  of  France.     I  see  it — some  confusion, 
Some  strange  mistake.     I  did  not  hear  aright, 
Myself  confused  with  parting  from  the  King. 

Margery  {behind  scene). 

Bee  mustn't  buzz, 
Whoop — but  he  knows. 

Rosamund. 

Yet  her — what  her?  he  hinted  of  some  her — 
When  he  was  here  before — 

Something  that  would  displease  me.     Hath  he  stray'd 
From  love's  clear  path  into  the  common  bush. 
And,  being  scratch'd,  returns  to  his  true  rose. 
Who  hath  not  thorn  enough  to  prick  him  for  it, 
Ev'n  with  a  word? 


132  BECKET.  ACT  iii, 

Margery  {behind  scene). 

Bird  mustn't  tell, 
Whoop — he  can  see. 

Rosamund. 

I  would  not  hear  him.   Nay — there's  more — he  frown'd 
*No  mate  for  her,  if  it  should  come  to  that ' — 
To  that — to  what? 

Margery  {behind  scene). 

Whoop — but  he  knows, 
Whoop — but  he  knows. 

Rosamund. 

O  God !  some  dreadful  truth  is  breaking  on  me — 
Some  dreadful  thing  is  coming  on  me. 

{^Enter  Geoffrey. 
Geoffrey ! 
Geoffrey. 

What  are  you  crying  for,  when  the  sun  shines? 

Rosamund. 
Hath  not  thy  father  left  us  to  ourselves? 

Geoffrey. 
Ay,   but  he's  taken  the  rain  with   him.     I    hear 
Margery:  I'll  go  play  with  her.  \_Exit  Geoffrey. 


scene  ii.  becket.  133 

Rosamund. 

Rainbow,  stay, 
Gleam  upon  gloom, 
Bright  as  my  dream, 
Rainbow,  stay! 
But  it  passes  away. 
Gloom  upon  gleam, 
Dark  as  my  doom — 
O  rainbow,  stay. 

Scene  II. — Outside  the  Woods  near  Rosamund's 

Bower^ 

Eleanor.     Fitzurse. 

Eleanor. 

Up  from  the  salt  lips  of  the  land  we  two 
Have  track'd  the  King  to  this  dark  inland  wood; 
And  somewhere  hereabouts  he  vanish'd.     Here 
His  turtle  builds:  his  exit  is  our  adit: 
Watch !  he  will  out  again,  and  presently^ 
Seeing  he  must  to  Westminster  and  crown 
Young  Henry  there  to-morrow. 

Fitzurse. 

We  have  watch'd 


134  BECKET.  act  hi. 

So  long  in  vain,  he  hath  pass'd  out  again, 
And  on  the  other  side.  \_A  great  horn  winded. 

Hark !     Madam ! 

Eleanor. 

Ay, 
How  ghostly  sounds  that  horn  in  the  black  wood ! 

\_A  countryman  flying. 
Whither  away,  man?  what  are  you  flying  from? 

Countryman. 

The  witch !  the  witch !  she  sits  naked  by  a  great 
heap  of  gold  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  and  when 
the  horn  sounds  she  comes  out  as  a  wolf.  Get  you 
hence!  a  man  passed  in  there  to-day:  I  hoUa'd  to 
him,  but  he  didn't  hear  me:  he'll  never  out  again, 
the  witch  has  got  him.  I  daren't  stay — I  daren't 
stay! 

Eleanor. 

Kind  of  the  witch  to  give  thee  warning  tho'. 

\J^an  flies. 
Is  not  this  wood-witch  of  the  rustic's  fear 
Our  woodland  Circe  that  hath  witch' d  the  King  ? 

\_Horn  sounded.     Another  flying. 

FiTZURSE. 

Again !  stay,  fool,  and  tell  me  why  thou  fliest. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  135 

Countryman. 

Fly  thou  too.  The  King  keeps  his  forest  head  of 
game  here,  and  when  that  horn  sounds,  a  score  of 
wolf-dogs  are  let  loose  that  will  tear  thee  piecemeal. 
Linger  not  till  the  third  horn.     Fly !  \_Exit. 

Eleanor. 

This  is  the  likelier  tale.     We  have  hit  the  place. 
Now  let  the  King's  fine  game  look  to  itself.     \_Horn. 

FiTZURSE. 

Again ! — 

And  far  on  in  the  dark  heart  of  the  wood 

I  hear  the  yelping  of  the  hounds  of  hell. 

Eleanor. 
I  have  my  dagger  here  to  still  their  throats. 

FiTZURSE. 

Nay,  Madam,  not  to-night— the  night  is  falling. 
What  can  be  done  to-night? 

Eleanor. 

Well — well — away. 


136  BECKET.  ACT  III. 

Scene  III. — Traitor'' s  Meadow  at Freteval.    Pavilions 
and  Tefits  of  the  Efigiish  and  French  Baronage. 

Becket  and  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Becket. 
See  here ! 

Herbert. 

What's  here? 

Becket. 

A  notice  from  the  priest, 
To  whom  our  John  of  Salisbury  committed 
The  secret  of  the  bower,  that  our  wolf-Queen 
Is  prowling  round  the  fold.     I  should  be  back 
In  England  ev'n  for  this, 

Herbert. 

These  are  by-things 
In  the  great  cause. 

Becket. 

The  by-things  of  the  Lord 
Are  the  wrong' d  innocences  that  will  cry 
From  all  the  hidden  by-ways  of  the  world 
In  the  great  day  against  the  wronger.     I  know 
Thy  meaning.     Perish  she,  I,  all,  before 
The  Church  should  suffer  wrong ! 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  137 

Herbert. 

Do  you  see,  my  lord, 
There  is  the  King  talking  with  Walter  Map? 

Becket. 

He  hath  the  Pope's  last  letters,  and  they  threaten 
The  immediate  thunder-blast  of  interdict: 
Yet  he  can  scarce  be  touching  upon  those, 
Or  scarce  would  smile  that  fashion. 

Herbert. 

Winter  sunshine ! 
Beware  of  opening  out  thy  bosom  to  it, 
Lest  thou,  myself,  and  all  thy  flock  should  catch 
An  after  ague-fit  of  trembling.     Look ! 
He  bows,  he  bares  his  head,  he  is  coming  hither. 
Still  with  a  smile. 

Enter  King  Henry  a7id  Walter  Map. 
Henry. 

We  have  had  so  many  hours  together,  Thomas, 

So  many  happy  hours  alone  together, 

That  I  would  speak  with  you  once  more  alone. 


'38  BECKET.  act  hi. 

Becket. 

My  liege,  your  will  and  happiness  are  mine. 

\_Exeunt  King  and  Becket. 

Herbert. 
The  same  smile  still. 

Walter  Map. 

Do  you  see  that  great  black  cloud  that  hath  come 
over  the  sun  and  cast  us  all  into  shadow? 

Herbert. 
And  feel  it  too. 

Walter  Map. 

And  see  you  yon  side-beam  that  is  forced  from 
under  it,  and  sets  the  church-tower  over  there  all  a- 
hell-fire  as  it  were? 

Herbert. 
Ay. 

Walter  Map. 

It  is  this  black, bell-silencing,  anti-marrying,  burial- 
hindering  interdict  that  hath  squeezed  out  this  side- 
smile  upon  Canterbury,  whereof  may  come  conflagra- 
tion.    Were  I  Thomas,  I  wouldn't  trust  it.     Sudden 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  139 

change  is  a  house  on  sand;  and  tho'  I  count  Henry 
honest  enough,  yet  when  fear  creeps  in  at  the  ffont, 
honesty  steals  out  at  the  back,  and  the  King  at  last  is 
fairly  scared  by  this  cloud — this  interdict.  I  have 
been  more  for  the  King  than  the  Church  in  this 
matter — yea,  even  for  the  sake  of  the  Church :  for, 
truly,  as  the  case  stood,  you  had  safelier  have  slain 
an  archbishop  than  a  she-goat :  but  our  recoverer  and 
upholder  of  customs  hath  in  this  crowning  of  young 
Henry  by  York  and  London  so  violated  the  imme- 
morial usage  of  the  Church,  that,  like  the  grave- 
digger's  child  I  have  heard  of,  trjwng  to  ring  the  bell, 
he  hath  half-hanged  himself  in  the  rope  of  the  Church, 
or  rather  pulled  all  the  Church  with  the  Holy  Father 
astride  of  it  down  upon  his  own  head. 

Herbert. 
Were  you  there? 

Walter  Map. 

In  the  church  rope? — no.  I  was  at  the  crowning, 
for  I  have  pleasure  in  the  pleasure  of  crowds,  and  to 
read  the  faces  of  men  at  a  great  show. 

Herbert. 
And  how  did  Roger  of  York  comport  himself? 


I40  BECKET.  act  hi. 

Walter  Map. 

As  magnificently  and  archiepiscopally  as  our 
Thomas  would  have  done :  only  there  was  a  dare- 
devil in  his  eye — I  should  say  a  dare-Becket.  He 
thought  less  of  tvvo  kings  than  of  one  Roger  the  king 
of  the  occasion.  Foliot  is  the  holier  man,  perhaps 
the  better.  Once  or  twice  there  ran  a  twitch  across 
his  face  as  who  should  say  what's  to  follow?  but 
Salisbury  was  a  calf  cowed  by  Mother  Church,  and 
every  now  and  then  glancing  about  him  like  a  thief 
at  night  when  he  hejrs  a  door  open  in  the  house  and 
thinks  'the  master.' 

Herbert. 
And  the  father-king? 

Walter  Map. 

The  father's  eye  was  so  tender  it  would  have  called 
a  goose  off  the  green,  and  once  he  strove  to  hide  his 
face,  like  the  Greek  king  when  his  daughter  was  sacri- 
ficed, but  he  thought  better  of  it:  it  was  but  the 
sacrifice  of  a  kingdom  to  his  son,  a  smaller  matter; 
but  as  to  the  young  crownling  himself,  he  looked  so 
malapert  in  the  eyes,  that  had  I  fathered  him  I  had 
given  him  more  of  the  rod  than  the  sceptre.  Then 
followed  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting, 
and  so  we  came  on  to  the  banquet,  from  whence  there 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  141 

puffed  out  such  an  incense  of  unctuosity  into  the 
nostrils  of  our  Gods  of  Church  and  State,  that  Lucul- 
lus  or  Apicius  might  have  sniffed  it  in  tlieir  Hades  of 
heathenism,  so  that  the  smell  of  their  own  roast  had 
not  come  across  it * 

Herbert. 

Map,  tho'  you  make  your  butt  too  big,  you  over- 
shoot it. 

Walter  Map. 

— For  as  to  the  fish,  they  de-miracled  the  miracu- 
lous draught,  and  might  have  sunk  a  navy 

Herbert. 
There  again,  Goliasing  and  Goliathising! 

Walter  Map. 

— And  as  for  the  flesh  at  table,  a  whole  Peter's 
sheet,  with  all  manner  of  game,  and  four-footed  things, 

and  fowls 

Herbert. 

And  all  manner  of  creeping  things  too? 

Walter  Map. 

— Well,  there  were  Abbots — but  they  did  not  bring 
their  women;  and  so  we  were  dull  enough  at  first, 
but  in  the  end  we  flourished  out  into  a  merriment; 


142  BECKET.  ACT  in. 

for  the  old  King  would  act  servitor  and  hand  a  dish 
to  his  son;  whereupon  my  Lord  of  York — his  fine-cut 
face  bowing  and  beaming  with  all  that  courtesy  which 
hath  less  loyalty  in  it  than  the  backward  scrape  of 
the  clown's  heel — 'great  honour,'  says  he,  'from  the 
King's  self  to  the  King's  son.'  Did  you  hear  the 
young  King's  quip? 

Herbert. 
No,  what  was  it? 

Walter  Map. 

Glancing  at  the  days  when  his  father  was  only  Earl 
of  Anjou,  he  answered: — 'Should  not  an  earl's  son 
wait  on  a  king's  son?  '  And  when  the  cold  corners 
of  the  King's  mouth  began  to  thaw,  there  was  a  great 
motion  of  laughter  among  us,  part  real,  part  child- 
like, to  be  freed  from  the  dulness — part  royal,  for 
King  and  kingling  both  laughed,  and  so  we  could  not 
but  laugh,  as  by  a  royal  necessity — part  childlike 
again — when  we  felt  we  had  laughed  too  long  and 
could  not  stay  ourselves — many  midriff-shaken  even 
to  tears,  as  springs  gush  out  after  earthquakes — but 
from  those,  as  I  said  before,  there  may  come  a  con- 
flagration— tho',  to  keep  the  figure  moist  and  make  it 
hold  water,  I  should  say  rather,  the  lacrymation  of  a 
lamentation;  but  look  if  Thomas  have  not  flung  him- 
self at  the  King's  feet.  They  have  made  it  up 
again — for  the  moment. 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  143 

Herbert. 
Thanks  to  the  blessed  Magdalen,  whose  day  it  is. 

Re-enter  Henry  and  Becket.  {^During  their  confer- 
ence the  Barons  and  Bishops  of  France  and 
England  come  in  at  back  of  stage.') 

Becket. 

Ay,  King !  for  in  thy  kingdom,  as  thou  knowest. 
The  spouse  of  the  Great  King,  thy  King,  hath  fallen — 
The  daughter  of  Zion  lies  beside  the  way — 
The  priests  of  Baal  tread  her  underfoot — 
The  golden  ornaments  are  stolen  from  her 

Henry. 

Have  I  not  promised  to  restore  her,  Thomas, 
And  send  thee  back  again  to  Canterbury? 

Becket. 

Send  back  again  those  exiles  of  my  kin 
Who  wander  famine-wasted  thro'  the  world. 

Henry. 
Have  I  not  promised,  man,  to  send  them  back? 


144  BECKET.  ACT  iii. 

Becket. 

Yet  one  thing  more.     Thou  hast  broken  thro'  the  pales 
Of  privilege,  crowning  thy  young  son  by  York, 
London  and  Salisbury — not  Canterbury. 

Henry. 
York  crown 'd  the  Conqueror — not  Canterbury. 

Becket. 
There  was  no  Canterbury  in  William's  time. 

Henry. 
But  Hereford,  you  know,  crown 'd  the  first  Henry. 

Becket. 
But  Anselm  crown'd  this  Henry  o'er  again. 

Henry. 
And  thou  shalt  crown  my  Henry  o'er  again. 

Becket. 

And  is  it  then  with  thy  good-will  that  I 
Proceed  against  thine  evil  councillors. 
And  hurl  the  dread  ban  of  the  Church  on  those 
Who  made  the  second  mitre  play  the  first, 
And  acted  me? 


scene  iii.  becket.  145 

Henry. 

Well,  well,  then — have  thy  way ! 
It  may  be  they  were  evil  councillors. 
What   more,    my   lord    Archbishop?      What    more, 

Thomas  ? 
I  make  thee  full  amends.     Say  all  thy  say, 
But  blaze  not  out  before  the  Frenchmen  here. 

Becket. 
More?     Nothing,  so  thy  promise  be  thy  deed. 

Henry  {holding  out  his  hand). 

Give  me  thy  hand.     My  Lords  of  France  and  England, 

My  friend  of  Canterbury  and  myself 

Are  now  once  more  at  perfect  amity. 

Unkingly  should  I  be,  and  most  unknightly 

Not  striving  still,  however  much  in  vain, 

To  rival  him  in  Christian  charity. 

Herbert. 
All  praise  to  Heaven,  and  sweet  St.  Magdalen ! 

Henry. 

And  so  farewell  until  we  meet  in  England. 

VOL.   VI.  L 


146  BECKET.  ACT  in. 

Becket. 
I  fear,  my  liege,  we  may  not  meet  in  England. 

Henry, 
How,  do  you  make  me  a  traitor? 

Becket. 

No,  indeed! 
That  be  far  from  thee. 

Henry. 

Come,  stay  with  us,  then. 
Before  you  part  for  England. 

Becket. 

I  am  bound 
For  that  one  hour  to  stay  with  good  King  Louis, 
Who  helpt  me  when  none  else. 

Herbert. 

He  said  thy  life 
Was  not  one  hour's  worth  in  England  save 
King  Henry  gave  thee  iirst  the  kiss  of  peace. 

Henry. 
He  said  so?     Louis,  did  he?  look  you,  Herbert. 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  1^7 

When  I  was  in  mine  anger  with  King  Louis, 

I  sware  I  would  not  give  the  kiss  of  peace, 

Not  on  French  ground,  nor  any  ground  but  English, 

Where    his    cathedral    stands.      Mine    old    friend, 

Thomas, 
I  would  there  were  that  perfect  trust  between  us. 
That  health  of  heart,  once  ours,  ere  Pope  or  King 
Had  come  between  us!     Even  now — who  knows? — 
I  might  deliver  all  things  to  thy  hand — 
If  .  ,   .  but  I  say  no  more  .   .  .  farewell,  my  lord. 

Becket. 
Farewell,  my  liege ! 

\_£xi^  Henry,  t/ien  the  Barons  and  Bishops. 

Walter  Map, 

There  again  !  when  the  full  fruit  of  the  royal  prom- 
ise might  have  dropt  into  thy  mouth  hadst  thou  but 
opened  it  to  thank  him. 

Becket. 
He  fenced  his  royal  promise  with  an  if. 

Walter  Map. 

And  is  the  King's  if  too  high  a  stile  for  your  lord- 
ship to  overstep  and  come  at  all  things  in  the  next 
field? 


148  becket.  act  iii. 

Becket. 

Ay,  if  this  if  be  like  the  Devil's  'if 
Thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me.' 

Herbert. 

Oh,  Thomas, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  thee,  my  Thomas, 
For  thou  hast  trodden  this  wine-press  alone. 

Becket. 
Nay,  of  the  people  there  are  many  with  me. 

Walter  Map. 

I  am  not  altogether  with  you,  my  lord,  tho'  I  am 
none  of  those  that  would  raise  a  storm  between  you, 
lest  ye  should  draw  together  like  two  ships  in  a  calm. 
You  wrong  the  King :  he  meant  what  he  said  to-day. 
Who  shall  vouch  for  his  to-morrows?  One  word 
further.  Doth  not  the  feloness  of  anything  make  the 
fulness  of  it  in  estimation?  Is  not  virtue  prized 
mainly  for  its  rarity  and  great  baseness  loathed  as  an 
exception :  for  were  all,  my  lord,  as  noble  as  your- 
self, who  would  look  up  to  you?  and  were  all  as  base 
as — who  shall  I  say — Fitzurse  and  his  following — who 
would  look   down  upon  them?     My  lord,  you  have 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  149 

put  so  many  of  the  King's  household  out  of  commun- 
ion, that  they  begin  to  smile  at  it. 

Becket. 
At  their  peril,  at  their  peril 


Walter  Map. 

— For  tho'  the  drop  may  hollow  out  the  dead  stone, 
doth  not  the  living  skin  thicken  against  perpetual 
whippings?  This  is  the  second  grain  of  good  coun- 
sel I  ever  proffered  thee,  and  so  cannot  suffer  by  the 
rule  of  frequency.  Have  I  sown  it  in  salt?  I  trust 
not,  for  before  God  I  promise  you  the  King  hath 
many  more  wolves  than  he  can  tame  in  his  woods  of 
England,  and  if  it  suit  their  purpose  to  howl  for  the 
King,  and  you  still  move  against  him,  you  may  have 
no  less  than  to  die  for  it;  but  God  and  his  free 
wind  grant  your  lordship  a  happy  home-return  and 
the  King's  kiss  of  peace  in  Kent.  Farewell !  I  must 
follow  the  King.  {Exit. 

Herbert. 

Ay,  and  I  warrant  the  customs.     Did  the  King 
Speak  of  the  customs? 

Becket. 

No !— To  die  for  it— 
I  live  to  die  for  it,  I  die  to  live  for  it. 


150  BECKET.  ACT  III 

The  State  will  die,  the  Church  can  never  die. 

The  King's  not  like  to  die  for  that  which  dies; 

But  I  must  die  for  that  which  never  dies. 

It  will  be  so— my  visions  in  the  Lord : 

It  must  be  so,  my  friend !  the  wolves  of  England 

Must  murder  her  one  shepherd,  that  the  sheep 

May  feed  in  peace.     False  figure.  Map  would  say. 

Earth's  falses  are  heaven's  truths.    And  when  my  voice 

Is  martyr 'd  mute,  and  this  man  disappears, 

That  perfect  trust  may  come  again  between  us, 

And  there,  there,  there,  not  here  I  shall  rejoice 

To  find  my  stray  sheep  back  within  the  fold. 

The  crowd  are  scattering,  let  us  move  away ! 

And  thence  to  England.  \_Exeunt 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — The  outskirts  of  the  Bower. 
Geoffrey  {coming  out  of  the  wood). 

Light  again!  light  again!     Margery?  no,  that's  a 
finer  thing  there.     How  it  glitters! 

Eleanor  {eiitering). 
Come  to  me,  little  one.     How  camest  thou  hither? 

Geoffrey. 
On  my  legs. 

Eleanor. 

And  mighty  pretty  legs  too.     Thou  art  the  prettiest 
child  I  ever  saw.     Wilt  thou  love  me? 

Geoffrey. 
No;  I  only  love  mother. 

Eleanor. 

Ay;  and  who  is  thy  mother? 

151 


152  BECKET.  ACT  IV. 

Geoffrey. 
They  call  her But  she  lives  secret,  you  see. 

Eleanor. 
Why? 

Geoffrey. 
Don't  know  why. 

Eleanor. 

Ay,  but  some  one  comes  to  see  her  now  and  then. 
Who  is  he? 

Geoffrey. 
Can't  tell. 

Eleanor. 

What  does  she  call  him? 

Geoffrey. 
My  liege. 

Eleanor. 
Pretty  one,  how  camest  thou? 

Geoffrey. 

There  was  a  bit  of  yellow  silk  here  and  there,  and 
it  looked  pretty  like  a  glowworm,  and  I  thought  if  I 
followed  it  I  should  find  the  fairies. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  153 

Eleanor. 

I  am  the  fairy,  pretty  one,  a  good  fairy  to  thy 
mother.     Take  me  to  her. 

Geoffrey. 

There  are  good  fairies  and  bad  fairies,  and  some- 
times she  cries,  and  can't  sleep  sound  o'  nights  be- 
cause of  the  bad  fairies. 

Eleanor. 

She  shall  cry  no  more;  she  shall  sleep  sound  enough 
if  thou  wilt  take  me  to  her.     I  am  her  good  fairy. 

Geoffrey. 

But  you  don't  look  like  a  good  fairy.  Mother 
does.     You  are  not  pretty,  like  mother. 

Eleanor. 

We  can't  all  of  us  be  as  pretty  as  thou  art — {aside) 
little  bastard.  Come,  here  is  a  golden  chain  I  will 
give  thee  if  thou  wilt  lead  me  to  thy  mother. 

Geoffrey. 

No — no  gold.  Mother  says  gold  spoils  all.  Love 
is  the  only  gold. 


154  BECKET.  ACT  iv. 


Eleanor. 

I  love  thy  mother,  my  pretty  boy.     Show  me  where 
thou  earnest  out  of  the  wood. 


Geoffrey. 

By  this  tree;  but  I  don't  know  if  I  can  find  the 
way  back  again. 

Eleanor. 
Where's  the  warder? 

Geoffrey. 
Very  bad.     Somebody  struck  him. 

Eleanor. 
Ay?  who  was  that? 

Geoffrey. 

Can't  tell.  But  I  heard  say  he  had  had  a  stroke, 
or  you'd  have  heard  his  horn  before  now.  Come 
along,  then;  we  shall  see  the  silk  here  and  there, 
and  I  want  my  supper.  \_Exeunr. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  155 


Scene  II. — Rosamund's  Bower. 

Rosamund. 

The  boy  so  late;  pray  God,  he  be  not  lost. 
I  sent  this  Margery,  and  she  comes  not  back; 
I  sent  another,  and  she  comes  not  back. 
I  go  myself — so  many  alleys,  crossings, 
Paths,  avenues — nay,  if  I  lost  him,  now 
The  folds  have  fallen  from  the  mystery, 
And  left  all  naked,  I  were  lost  indeed. 

Enter  Geoffrey  a?jd  Eleanor. 

Geoffrey,  the  pain  thou  hast  put  me  to ! 

[^Seeing  Eleanor. 
Ha,  you! 
How  came  you  hither? 

Eleanor. 
Your  own  child  brought  me  hither ! 

Geoffrey. 

You  said  you  couldn't  trust  Margery,  and  I  watched 
her  and  followed  her  into  the  woods,  and  I  lost  her 
and  went  on  and  on  till  I  found  the  light  and  the 
lady,  and  she  says  she  can  make  you  sleep  o'  nights. 


IS6  BECKET. 


ACT  IV. 


Rosamund. 

How  dared  you?     Know  you  not  this  bower  is  secret, 

Of  and  belonging  to  the  King  of  England, 

More  sacred  than  his  forests  for  the  chase? 

Nay,  nay,  Heaven  help  you;  get  you  hence  in  haste 

Lest  worse  befall  you. 

Eleanor. 

Child,  I  am  mine  own  self 
Of  and  belonging  to  the  King.     The  King 
Hath  divers  ofs  and  ons,  ofs  and  belongings, 
Almost  as  many  as  your  true  Mussulman — 
Belongings,  paramours,  whom  it  pleases  him 
To  call  his  wives;  but  so  it  chances,  child, 
That  I  am  his  main  paramour,  his  sultana. 
But  since  the  fondest  pair  of  doves  will  jar, 
Ev'n  in  a  cage  of  gold,  we  had  words  of  late, 
And  thereupon  he  call'd  my  children  bastards. 
Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married  to  him? 

Rosamund. 
I  should  believe  it. 

Eleanor. 

You  must  not  believe  it, 
Because  I  have  a  wholesome  medicine  here 


SCENE  II,  BECKET.  157 

Puts  that  belief  asleep.     Your  answer,  beauty! 
Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married  to  him? 

Rosamund. 

Geoffrey,  my  boy,  I  saw  the  ball  you  lost  in  the 
fork  of  the  great  willow  over  the  brook.  Go.  See 
that  you  do  not  fall  in.     Go. 

Geoffrey. 

And  leave  you  alone  with  the  good  fairy.  She  calls 
you  beauty,  but  I  don't  like  her  looks.  Well,  you 
bid  me  go,  and  I'll  have  ray  ball  anyhow.  Shall  I 
find  you  asleep  when  I  come  back? 

Rosamund. 
Go.  {Exit  Geoffrey. 

Eleanor. 

He  is  easily  found  again.     Do  you  believe  it? 
I  pray  you  then  to  take  my  sleeping-draught; 
But  if  you  should  not  care  to  take  it — see ! 

\_DraK<s  a  dagger. 
What !  have  I  scared  the  red  rose  from  your  face 
Into  your  heart.     But  this  will  find  it  there. 
And  dig  it  from  the  root  for  ever. 

Rosamund. 

Help!  help! 


158  BECKET.  ACT  IV 

Eleanor. 

They  say  that  walls  have  ears ;  but  these,  it  seems, 
Have  none !  and  I  have  none — to  pity  thee. 

Rosamund. 

I  do  beseech  you — my  child  is  so  young, 

So  backward  too;  I  cannot  leave  him  yet, 

I  am  not  so  happy  I  could  not  die  myself, 

But  the  child  is  so  young.     You  have  children — his; 

And  mine  is  the  King's  child;  so,  if  you  love  him — 

Nay,  if  you  love  him,  there  is  great  wrong  done 

Somehow;  but  if  you  do  not — there  are  those 

Who  say  you  do  not  love  him — let  me  go 

With  my  young  boy,  and  I  will  hide  my  face, 

Blacken  and  gipsyfy  it;  none  shall  know  me; 

The  King  shall  never  hear  of  me  again. 

But  I  will  beg  my  bread  along  the  world 

With  my  young  boy,  and  God  will  be  our  guide. 

I  never  meant  your  harm  in  any  way. 

See,  I  can  say  no  more. 

Eleanor. 
Will  you  not  say  you  are  not  married  to  him? 

Rosamund. 
Ay,  Madam,  I  can  say  it,  if  you  will. 


SCENE  II,  BECKET.  159 

Eleanor. 
Then  is  thy  pretty  boy  a  bastard? 

Rosamund. 

No. 

Eleanor. 

And  thou  thyself  a  proven  wanton? 

Rosamund. 

No. 

I  am  none  such.     I  never  loved  but  one. 


I  have  heard  of  such  that  range  from  love  to  love. 
Like  the  wild  beast — if  you  can  call  it  love. 
I  have  heard  of  such — yea,  even  among  those 
Who  sit  on  thrones — I  never  saw  any  such, 
Never  knew  any  such,  and  howsoever 
You  do  misname  me,  match' d  with  any  such, 
I  am  snow  to  mud. 

Eleanor. 

The  more  the  pity  then 
That  thy  true  home — the  heavens — cry  out  for  thee 
Who  art  too  pure  for  earth. 

Enter  Fit2Xirse. 

Fitzurse. 

Give  her  to  me. 


i6o  BECKET.  act  iv. 

Eleanor. 

The  Judas-lover  of  our  passion-play 
Hath  track' d  us  hither^ 

FiTZURSE. 

Well,  why  not?     I  follow'd 
You  and  the  child :  he  babbled  all  the  way. 
Give  her  to  me  to  make  my  honeymoon. 

Eleanor. 

Ay,  as  the  bears  love  honey.     Could  you  keep  her 
Indungeon'd  from  one  whisper  of  the  wind, 
Dark  even  from  a  side  glance  of  the  moon, 
And-oublietted  in  the  centre — No! 
I  follow  out  my  hate  and  thy  revenge. 

Fitzurse. 

You  bad  me  take  revenge  another  way — 

To  bring  her  to  the  dust.   .   .   .  Come  with  me,  love, 

And  I  will  love  thee.   .   .   .  Madam,  let  her  live. 

I  have  a  far-off  burrow  where  the  King 

Would  miss  her  and  for  ever. 

Eleanor. 

How  sayest  thou,  sweetheart? 
Wilt  thou  go  with  him?  he  will  marry  thee. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  l6l 

Rosamund. 

Give  me  the  poison;  set  me  free  of  him! 

[Eleanor  offers  the  vial. 
No,  no !    I  will  not  have  it. 

Eleanor. 

Then  this  other, 
The  wiser  choice,  because  my  sleeping-draught 
May  bloat  thy  beauty  out  of  shape,  and  make 
Thy  body  loathsome  even  to  thy  child; 
While  this  but  leaves  thee  with  a  broken  heart, 
A  doll-face  blanch'd  and  bloodless,  over  which 
If  pretty  Geoffrey  do  not  break  his  own, 
It  must  be  broken  for  him. 

ROSAIVIUND. 

O  I  see  now 

Your  purpose  is  to  fright  me — a  troubadour 
You  play  with  words.     You  had  never  used  so  many, 
Not  if  you  meant  it,  I  am  sure.     The  child  .  .  . 
No  .  .  .  mercy!     No!     {Kneels.) 

Eleanor. 

Play !  .  .  .  that  bosom  never 
Heaved  under  the  King's  hand  with  such  true  passion 
As  at  this  loveless  knife  that  stirs  the  riot, 

VOL.   VI.  M 


1 62  BECKET.  ACT  iv. 

Which  it  will  quench  in  blood !     Slave,  if  he  love  thee, 

Thy  life  is  worth  the  wrestle  for  it:  arise, 

And  dash  thyself  against  me  that  I  may  slay  thee ! 

The  worm!  shall  I  let  her  go?     But  ha!  what's  here? 

By  very  God,  the  cross  I  gave  the  King! 

His  village  darling  in  some  lewd  caress 

Has  wheedled  it  off  the  King's  neck  to  her  own. 

By  thy  leave,  beauty.     Ay,  the  same !     I  warrant 

Thou  hast  sworn  on  this  my  cross  a  hundred  times 

Never  to  leave  him — and  that  merits  death. 

False  oath  on  holy  cross — for  thou  must  leave  him 

To-day,  but  not  quite  yet.     My  good  Fitzurse, 

The  running  down  the  chase  is  kindlier  sport 

Ev'n  than  the  death.     Who  knows  but  that  thy  lover 

May  plead  so  pitifully,  that  I  may  spare  thee? 

Come  hither,   man;  stand   there.       {^To  Rosamund) 

Take  thy  one  chance; 
Catch  at  the  last  straw.     Kneel  to  thy  lord  Fitzurse; 
Crouch  even  because  thou  hatest   him;   fawn   upon 

him 
For  thy  life  and  thy  son's. 

Rosamund  ( rising) . 

I  am  a  Clifford, 
My  son  a  Clifford  and  Plantagenet. 
I  am  to  die  then,  tho'  there  stand  beside  thee 
One  who  might  grapple  with  thy  dagger,  if  he 


SCENE   11. 


BECKET.  163 


Had  aught  of  man,  or  thou  of  woman ;  or  I 

Would  bow  to  such  a  baseness  as  would  make  me 

Most  worthy  of  it:  both  of  us  will  die, 

And  I  will  fly  with  my  sweet  boy  to  heaven, 

And  shriek  to  all  the  saints  among  the  stars : 

'Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Eleanor  of  England! 

Murder'd  by  that  adulteress  Eleanor, 

Whose  doings  are  a  horror  to  the  east, 

A  hissing  in  the  west! '     Have  we  not  heard? 

Raymond  of  Poitou,  thine  own  uncle — nay, 

Geoffrey  Plantagenet,  thine  own  husband's  father — 

Nay,  ev'n  the  accursed  heathen  Saladdeen 

Strike ! 

I  challenge  thee  to  meet  me  before  God. 

Answer  me  there. 

Eleanor  {raising  the  dagger). 

This  in  thy  bosom,  fool, 
And  after  in  thy  bastard's! 

Enter  Becket  from  behind.     Catches  hold  of  her  arm. 

Becket. 

Murderess ! 
{The  dagger  falls  ;  tKey  stare  at  one  another. 
After  a  pause. 

Eleanor. 
My  lord,  we  know  you  proud  of  your  fine  hand, 


l64  BECKET.  ACT  iv. 

But  having  now  admired  it  long  enough, 
We  find  that  it  is  mightier  than  it  seems — 
At  least  mine  own  is  frailer:  you  are  laming  it. 

Becket. 
And  lamed  and  maim'd  to  dislocation,  better 
Than  raised  to  take  a  life  which  Henry  bad  me 
Guard  from  the  stroke  that  dooms  thee  after  death 
To  wail  in  deathless  flame. 

Eleanor. 

Nor  you,  nor  I 
Have  now  to  learn,  my  lord,  that  our  good  Henry 
Says  many  a  thing  in  sudden  heats,  which  he 
Gainsays  by  next  sunrising — often  ready 
To  tear  himself  for  having  said  as  much. 
My  lord,  Fitzurse 

Becket. 

He  too !  what  dost  thou  here  ? 
Dares  the  bear  slouch  into  the  lion's  den? 
One  downward  plunge  of  his  paw  would  rend  away 
Eyesight  and  manhood,  life  itself,  from  thee. 
Go,  lest  I  blast  thee  with  anathema, 
And  make  thee  a  world's  horror. 

Fitzurse. 

My  lord,  I  shall 

Remember  this. 


f 

SCENE  II,  BECKET.  165 


Becket. 

I  do  remember  thee; 
Lest  I  remember  thee  to  the  lion,  go. 

\_Exit  FiTZURSE. 

Take  up  your  dagger;  put  it  in  the  sheath. 

Eleanor. 
Might  not  your  courtesy  stoop  to  hand  it  me? 
But  crowns  must  bow  when  mitres  sit  so  high. 
Well — well — too  costly  to  be  left  or  lost. 

\_Picks  up  the  dagger. 
I  had  it  from  an  Arab  soldan,  who, 
When  I  was  there  in  Antioch,  marvell'd  at 
Our  unfamiliar  beauties  of  the  west; 
But  wonder' d  more  at  my  much  constancy 
To  the  monk-king,  Louis,  our  former  burthen, 
From  whom,  as  being  too  kin,  you  know,  my  lord, 
God's  grace  and  Holy  Church  deliver' d  us. 
I  think,  time  given,  I  could  have  talk'd  him  out  of 
His  ten  wives  into  one.     Look  at  the  hilt. 
What  excellent  workmanship.     In  our  poor  west 
We  cannot  do  it  so  well. 

Becket. 

We  can  do  worse. 
Madam,  I  saw  your  dagger  at  her  throat; 
I  heard  your  savage  cry. 


1 66  BECKET.  act  iv. 

Eleanor. 

Well  acted,  was  it? 

A  comedy  meant  to  seem  a  tragedy — 
A  feint,  a  farce.     My  honest  lord,  you  are  known 
Thro'  all  the  courts  of  Christendom  as  one 
That  mars  a  cause  with  over-violence. 
You  have  wrong' d  Fitzurse.     I  speak  not  of  myself. 
We  thought  to  scare  this  minion  of  the  King 
Back  from  her  churchless  commerce  with  the  King 
To  the  fond  arms  of  her  first  love,  Fitzurse, 
Who  swore  to  marry  her.     You  have  spoilt  the  farce. 
My  sa\age  cry?     Why,  she — she — when  I  strove 
To  work  against  her  license  for  her  good, 
Bark'd  out  at  me  such  monstrous  charges,  that 
The  King  himself,  for  love  of  his  own  sons. 
If  hearing,  would  have  spurn'd  her;  whereupon 
I  menaced  her  with  this,  as  when  we  threaten 
A  yelper  with  a  stick.     Nay,  I  deny  not 
That  I  was  somewhat  anger'd.     Do  you  hear  me? 
Believe  or  no,  I  care  not.     You  have  lost 
The  ear  of  the  King.     I  have  it.   .   .   .   My  lord  Para- 
mount, 
Our  great  High-priest,  will  not  your  Holiness 
Vouchsafe  a  gracious  answer  to  your  Queen? 

Becket. 
Rosamund  hath  not  answer' d  you  one  word; 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  167 

Madam,  I  will  not  answer  you  one  word. 

Daughter,    the   world   hath  trick'd  thee.     Leave  it, 

daughter ; 
Come  thou  with  me  to  Godstow  nunnery, 
And  live  what  may  be  left  thee  of  a  life 
Saved  as  by  miracle  alone  with  Him 
Who  gave  it. 

Re-enter  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey. 

Mother,  you  told  me  a  great  fib:  it  wasn't  in  the 
willow. 

Becket. 

Follow  us,  my  son,  and  we  will  find  it  for  thee — 
Or  something  manlier. 

\_Exeu7it  Becket,  Rosamund,  and  Geoffrey. 

Eleanor. 

The  world  hath  trick'd  her — that's  the  King;  if  so. 
There  was  the  farce,  the  feint — not  mine.     And  yet 
I  am  all  but  sure  my  dagger  was  a  feint 
Till  the  worm  turn'd — not  life  shot  up  in  blood, 
But  death  drawn  in; — {looking  at  the  viat)  t/iis-wa.s  no 

feint  then?  no. 
But  can  I  swear  to  that,  had  she  but  given 
Plain  answer  to  plain  query?  nay,  methinks 


i68  BECKET.  act  iv. 

Had  she  but  bow'd  herself  to  meet  the  wave 

Of  humiliation,  worshipt  whom  she  loathed, 

I  should  have  let  her  be,  scorn' d  her  too  much 

To  harm  her.     Henry — Becket  tells  him  this — 

To  take  my  life  might  lose  him  Aquitaine. 

Too  politic  for  that.     Imprison  me? 

No,  for  it  came  to  nothing — only  a  feint. 

Did  she  not  tell  me  I  was  playing  on  her? 

I'll  swear  to  mine  own  self  it  was  a  feint. 

Why  should  I  swear,  Eleanor,  who  am,  or  was, 

A  sovereign  power?     The  King  plucks  out  their  eyes 

Who  anger  him,  and  shall  not  I,  the  Queen, 

Tear  out  her  heart — kill,  kill  with  knife  or  venom 

One  of  his  slanderous  harlots?     'None  of  such? ' 

I  love  her  none  the  more.     Tut,  the  chance  gone, 

She  lives — but  not  for  him;  one  point  is  gain'd. 

O  I,  that  thro'  the  Pope  divorced  King  Louis, 

Scorning  his  monkery, — T  that  wedded  Henry, 

Honouring  his  manhood  will  he  not  mock  at  me 

The  jealous  fool  balk'd  of  her  will— with  him  ? 

But  he  and  he  must  never  meet  again. 

Reginald  Fitzurse ! 

Re-enter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse. 
Here,  Madam,  at  your  pleasure. 


scene  ii.  becket.  169 

Eleanor. 

My  pleasure  is  to  have  a  man  about  me. 
Why  did  you  slink  away  so  like  a  cur? 

FiTZURSE. 

Madam,  I  am  as  much  man  as  the  King. 
Madam,  I  fear  Church-censures  like  your  King. 

Eleanor. 

He  grovels  to  the  Church  when  he's  black-blooded, 

But  kinglike  fought  the  proud  archbishop, — kinglike 

Defied  the  Pope,  and,  like  his  kingly  sires, 

The  Normans,  striving  still  to  break  or  bind 

The  spiritual  giant  with  our  island  laws 

And  customs,  made  me  for  the  moment  proud 

Ev'n  of  that  stale  Church-bond  which  link'd  me  with 

him 
To  bear  him  kingly  sons.     I  am  not  so  sure 
But  that  I  love  him  still.     Thou  as  much  man ! 
No  more  of  that;  we  will  to  France  and  be 
Beforehand  with  the  King,  and  brew  from  out 
This  Godstow-Becket  intermeddling  such 
A  strong  hate-philtre  as  may  madden  him — madden 
Against  his  priest  beyond  all  hellebore. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Castle  in  Normandy.     King's  Chafnber. 

Henry,  Roger  of  York,  Foliot,    Jocelyn  of 
Salisbury. 

Roger  of  York. 
Nay,  nay,  my  liege. 
He  rides  abroad  with  armed  followers, 
Hath  broken  all  his  promises  to  thyself. 
Cursed  and  anathematised  us  right  and  left, 
Stirr'd  up  a  party  there  against  your  son — 

Henry. 

Roger  of  York,  you  always  hated  him, 

Even  when  you  both  were  boys  at  Theobald's. 

Roger  of  York. 

I  always  hated  boundless  arrogance. 
In  mine  own  cause  I  strove  against  him  there, 
And  in  thy  cause  I  strive  against  him  now. 

170 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  171 

Henry. 
I  cannot  think  he  moves  against  my  son, 
Knowing  right  well  with  what  a  tenderness 
He  loved  my  son. 

Roger  of  York. 

Before  you  made  him  king. 
But  Becket  ever  moves  against  a  king. 
The  Church  is  all — the  crime  to  be  a  king. 
We  trust  your  Royal  Grace,  lord  of  more  land 
Than  any  crown  in  Europe,  will  not  yield 
To  lay  your  neck  beneath  your  citizens'  heel. 

Henry. 
Not  to  a  Gregory  of  my  throning !     No. 

FOLIOT. 

My  royal  liege,  in  aiming  at  your  love, 

It  may  be  sometimes  I  have  overshot 

My  duties  to  our  Holy  Mother  Church, 

Tho'  all  the  world  allows  I  fall  no  inch 

Behind  this  Becket,  rather  go  beyond 

In  scourgings,  macerations,  mortifyings. 

Fasts,  disciplines  that  clear  the  spiritual  eye. 

And  break  the  soul  from  earth.     Let  all  that  be. 

I  boast  not:  but  you  know  thro'  all  this  quarrel 

I  still  have  cleaved  to  the  crown,  in  hope  the  crown 


172  BECKET.  ACT  v. 

Would  cleave  to  me  that  but  obey'd  the  crown, 
Crowning  your  son;  for  which  our  loyal  service, 
And  since  we  likewise  swore  to  obey  the  customs, 
York  and  myself,  and  our  good  Salisbury  here, 
Are  push'd  from  out  communion  of  the  Church. 

JocELYN  OF  Salisbury. 
Becket  hath  trodden  on  us  like  worms,  my  liege; 
Trodden  one  half  dead;  one  half,  but  half -alive, 
Cries  to  the  King. 

Henry  {aside). 
Take  care  o'  thyself,  O  King. 

JocELYN  OF  Salisbury. 

Being  so  crush' d  and  so  humiliated 

We  scarcely  dare  to  bless  the  food  we  eat 

Because  of  Becket. 

Henry. 

What  would  ye  have  me  do? 

Roger  of  York. 
Summon  your  barons ;  take  their  counsel :  yet 
I  know — could  sweajtrrraslong  as  Becket  breathes. 
Your  Grace  will  never  have  one  quiet  hour. 

Henry. 
What?  .  .  .  Ay  .  .  .  but  pray  you  do  not  work  upon  me. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  173 

I  see  your  drift  ...  it  may  be  so  .   .   .  and  yet 
You  know  me  easily  anger'd.     Will  you  hence? 
He  shall  absolve  you  .   .   .  you  shall  have  redress. 
I  have  a  dizzying  headache.     Let  me  rest. 
I'll  call  you  by  and  by. 

\_Exeu7it  Roger  of  York,  Foliot,  and  Jocelyn 
OF  Salisbury. 
Would  he  were  dead !     I  have  lost  all  love  for  him. 
If  God  would  take  him  in  some  sudden  way — 
Would  he  were  dead.  \_Lies  down. 

Page  {entering). 
My  liege,  the  Queen  of  England. 

Henry. 
God's  eyes !  \Starting  up, 

Efiter  Eleanor. 

Eleanor. 

Of  England  ?     Say  of  Aquitaine. 
I  am  no  Queen  of  England.     I  had  dream'd 
I  was  the  bride  of  England,  and  a  queen. 

Henry. 

And, — while  you  dream'd  you  were  the  bride  of  Eng- 
land,— 
Stirring  her  baby-king  against  me?  ha! 


174  BECKET.  ACT  v. 

Eleanor. 

The  brideless  Becket  is  thy  king  and  mine: 
I  will  go  live  and  die  in  Aquitaine. 

Henry. 

Except  I  clap  thee  into  prison  here, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  play  the  wanton  there  again. 
Ha,  you  of  Aquitaine  !     O  you  of  Aquitaine ! 
You  were  but  Aquitaine  to  Louis — no  wife; 
You  are  only  Aquitaine  to  me — no  wife. 

Eleanor. 
And  why,  my  lord,  should  I  be  wife  to  one 
That  only  wedded  me  for  Aquitaine? 
Yet  this  no  wife — her  six  and  thirty  sail 
Of  Provence  blew  you  to  your  English  throne; 
And  this  no  wife  has  born  you  four  brave  sons. 
And  one  of  them  at  least  is  like  to  prove 
Bigger  in  our  small  world  than  thou  art. 

Henry. 

Ay- 

Richard,  if  he  be  mine — I  hope  him  mine. 
But  thou  art  like  enough  to  make  him  thine. 

Eleanor. 
Becket  is  like  enough  to  make  all  his. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  175 

Henry. 

Methought  I  had  recover' d  of  the  Becket, 
That  all  was  planed  and  bevell'd  smooth  again, 
Save  for  some  hateful  cantrip  of  thine  own. 

Eleanor. 

I  will  go  live  and  die  in  Aquitaine. 
I  dream 'd  I  was  the  consort  of  a  king, 
Not  one  whose  back  his  priest  has  broken. 

Henry. 

What! 

Is  the  end  come?     You,  will  you  crown  my  foe 

My  victor  in  mid-battle?     I  will  be 

Sole  master  of  my  house.     The  end  is  mine. 

What    game,     what    juggle,    what    devilry   are   you 

playing? 

Why  do  you  thrust  this  Becket  on  me  again? 

Eleanor. 

Why?  for  I  am  true  wife,  and  have  my  fears 
Lest  Becket  thrust  you  even  from  your  throne. 
Do  you  know  this  cross,  my  liege? 

Henry  {turning  his  head). 

Away !     Not  I. 


176  becket.  act  v. 

Eleanor. 
Not  ev'n  the  central  diamond,  worth,  I  think, 
Half  of  the  Antioch  whence  I  had  it. 

Henry. 

That? 

Eleanor. 

I  gave  it  you,  and  you  your  paramour; 
She  sends  it  back,  as  being  dead  to  earth, 
So  dead  henceforth  to  you. 

Henry. 

Dead!  you  have  murder' d  her, 
Found  out  her  secret  bower  and  murder' d  her. 

Eleanor. 
Your  Becket  knew  the  secret  of  your  bower. 

Henry  {calling  oui). 
'  Ho  there !  thy  rest  of  life  is  hopeless  prison. 

Eleanor. 

And  what  would  my  own  Aquitaine  say  to  that? 
First,  free  thy  captive  from  her  hopeless  prison. 


scene  i.  becket.  177 

Henry. 

0  devil,  can  I  free  her  from  the  grave  ? 

Eleanor. 

You  are  too  tragic :  both  of  us  are  players 
In  such  a  comedy  as  our  court  of  Provence 
Had  laugh'd  at.     That's  a  delicate  Latin  lay 
Of  Walter  Map :  the  lady  holds  the  cleric 
Lovelier  than  any  soldier,  his  poor  tonsure 
A  crown  of  Empire.     Will  you  have  it  again? 

(^Offering  the  cross.     He  dashes  it  down.) 
St.  Cupid,  that  is  too  irreverent. 
Then  mine  once  more.      {Puts  it  on.') 

Your  cleric  hath  your  lady. 
Nay,  what  uncomely  faces,  could  he  see  you ! 
Foam  at  the  mouth  because  King  Thomas,  lord 
Not  only  of  your  vassals  but  amours,  ^ 

Thro'  chastest  honour  of  the  Decalogue 
Hath  used  the  full  authority  of  his  Church 
To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery. 

Henry. 

To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery ! 

He  dared  not — liar !  yet,  yet  I  remember — 

1  do  remember. 

He  bad  me  put  her  into  a  nunnery — 

VOL.   VL  N 


178  BECKET.  ACT  V. 

Into  Godstow,  into  Hellstow,  Devilstow! 
The  Church !  the  Church ! 

God's  eyes!     I  would  the  Church  were  down  in  hell! 

{Exit. 

Eleanor. 
Aha! 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

FiTZURSE. 

What  made  the  King  cry  out  so  furiously? 

Eleanor. 

Our  Becket,  who  will  not  absolve  the  Bishops. 
I  think  ye  four  have  cause  to  love  this  Becket. 

FiTZURSE. 

I  hate  him  for  his  insolence  to  all. 

De  Tracy. 
And  I  for  all  his  insolence  to  thee. 

De  Brito. 

I  hate  him  for  I  hate  him  is  my  reason, 
And  yet  I  hate  him  for  a  hypocrite. 


SCENE  I.  BECKET.  179 

De  Morville. 

I  do  not  love  him,  for  he  did  his  best 

To  break  the  barons,  and  now  braves  the  King. 

Eleanor. 
Strike,  then,  at  once,  the  King  would  have  him — See ! 

Re-enter  Henry. 

Henry. 

No  man  to  love  me,  honour  me,  obey  me! 

Sluggards  and  fools ! 

The  slave  that  eat  my  bread  has  kick'd  his  King! 

The  dog  I  cramm'd  with  dainties  worried  me! 

The  fellow  that  on  a  lame  jade  came  to  court, 

A  ragged  cloak  for  saddle — he,  he,  he. 

To  shake  my  throne,  to  push  into  my  chamber — 

My  bed,  where  ev'n  the  slave  is  private — he — 

I'll  have  her  out  again,  he  shall  absolve 

The  bishops — they  but  did  my  will — not  you — 

Sluggards  and  fools,  why  do  you  stand  and  stare? 

You  are  no  king's  men— you — you — you  are  Becket's 

men. 
Down  with  King  Henry!  up  with  the  Archbishop! 
Will  no  man  free  n^  from  this  pestilent  priest?  \_Exit. 
[  The  Knights  draw  their  swords. 


l8o  BECKET.  ACT  v. 

Eleanor. 
Are  ye  king's  men?     I  am  king's  woman,  I. 

The  Knights. 
King's  men !     King's  men ! 

Scene  II. — A  Room  in  Canterbury  Monastery. 
Becket  and  John  of  Salisbury. 

Becket. 
York  said  so? 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Yes :  a  man  may  take  good  counsel 
Ev'n  from  his  foe. 

Becket. 

York  will  say  anything. 
What  is  he  saying  now?  gone  to  the  King 
And  taken  our  anathema  with  him.     York ! 
Can  the  King  de-anathematise  this  York? 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Thomas,  I  would  thou  hadst  return' d  to  England^ 
Like  some  wise  prince  of  this  world  from  his  wars, 
With  more  of  olive-branch  and  amnest}' 
For  foes  at  home — thou  hast  raised  the  world  against 
thee. 


SCENE  11.  BECKET.  i8i 

Becket. 
Why,  John,  my  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

If  it  were  more  of  this  world  it  might  be 

More  of  the  next.     A  policy  of  wise  pardon 

Wins  here  as  well  as  there.   To  bless  thine  enemies 


Becket. 
Ay,  mine,  not  Heaven's, 

John  of  Salisbury. 

And  may  there  not  be  something 
Of  this  world's  leaven  in  thee  too,  when  crying 
On  Holy  Church  to  thunder  out  her  rights 
And  thine  own  wrong  so  pitilessly.     Ah,  Thomas, 
The  lightnings  that  we  think  are  only  Heaven's 
Flash  sometimes  out  of  earth  against  the  heavens. 
The  soldier,  when  he  lets  his  whole  self  go 
Lost  in  the  common  good,  the  common  wrong, 
Strikes  truest  ev'n  for  his  own  self.     I  crave 
Thy  pardon — I  have  still  thy  leave  to  speak. 
Thou  hast  waged  God's  war  against  the   King;  and 

yet 
We  are  self-uncertain  creatures,  and  we  may. 


1 82  BECKET.  ACT  v. 

Yea,  even  when  we  know  not,  mix  our  spites 
And  private  hates  with  our  defence  of  Heaven. 

\_Enter  Edward  Grim. 

Becket. 

Thou  art  but  yesterday  from  Cambridge,  Grim; 
What  say  ye  there  of  Becket? 

Grim. 

/believe  him 
The  bravest  in  our  roll  of  Primates  down 
From  Austin — there  are  some — for  there  are  men 
Of  canker'd  judgment  everywhere 

Becket. 

Who  hold 
With  York,  with  York  against  me. 

Grim. 

Well,  my  lord, 
A  stranger  monk  desires  access  to  you. 

Becket. 

York  against  Canterbury,  York  against  God ! 
I  am  open  to  him. 

\_Exii  Grim. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  183 

Enter  Rosamund  as  a  Monk. 

Rosamund. 

Can  I  speak  with  you 
Alone,  my  father? 

Becket. 

Come  you  to  confess? 

Rosamund. 
Not  now. 

Becket. 
Then  speak;  this  is  my  other  self, 
Who  like  my  conscience  never  lets  me  be. 

Rosamund  {throwing  back  the  cowl). 
I  know  him;  our  good  John  of  Salisbury. 

Becket. 

Breaking  already  from  thy  noviciate 

To  plunge  into  this  bitter  world  again — 

These  wells  of  Marah.     I  am  grieved,  my  daughter. 

I  thought  that  I  had  made  a  peace  for  thee. 

Rosamund. 

Small  peace  was  mine  in  my  noviciate,  father. 
Thro'  all  closed  doors  a  dreadful  whisper  crept 
That  thou  wouldst  excommunicate  the  King. 


1 84  BECKET.  act  v. 

I  could  not  eat,  sleep,  pray :  I  had  with  me 

The  monk's  disguise  thou  gavest  me  for  my  bower: 

I  think  our  Abbess  knew  it  and  allow' d  it. 

I  fled,  and  found  thy  name  a  charm  to  get  me 

Food,  roof,  and  rest.     I  met  a  robber  once, 

I  told  him  I  was  bound  to  see  the  Archbishop; 

'Pass  on,'  he  said,  and  in  thy  name  I  pass'd 

From  house  to  house.     In  one  a  son  stone-blind 

Sat  by  his  mother's  hearth :  he  had  gone  too  far 

Into  the  King's  own  woods;  and  the  poor  mother. 

Soon  as  she  learnt  I  was  a  friend  of  thine, 

Cried  out  against  the  cruelty  of  the  King. 

I  said  it  was  the  King's  courts,  not  the  King; 

But  she  would  not  believe  me,  and  she  wish'd 

The  Church  were  king :  she  had  seen  the  Archbishop 

once, 
So  mild,  so  kind.     The  people  love  thee,  father. 


Becket. 

Alas !  when  I  was  Chancellor  to  the  King, 
I  fear  I  was  as  cruel  as  the  King. 


Rosamund. 

Cruel?     Oh,  no — it  is  the  law,  not  he; 
The  customs  of  the  realm. 


SCENE  11.  BECKET.  185 

Becket. 

The  customs !  customs ! 

Rosamund. 

My  lord,  you  have  not  excommunicated  him? 
Oh,  if  you  have,  absolve  him ! 

Becket. 

Daughter,  daughter, 
Deal  not  with  things  you  know  not, 

Rosamund. 

I  know  him. 
Then  you  have  done  it,  and  I  call  you  cruel. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

No,  daughter,  you  mistake  our  good  Archbishop; 
For  once  in  France  the  King  had  been  so  harsh, 
He  thought  to  excommunicate  him — Thomas, 
You  could  not — old  affection  master'd  you, 
You  falter' d  into  tears. 

Rosamund. 

God  bless  him  for  it. 


i86  BECKET.  act  v. 

Becket. 

Nay,  make  me  not  a  woman,  John  of  Salisbury, 
Nor  make  me  traitor  to  my  holy  ofifiice. 
Did  not  a  man's  voice  ring  along  the  aisle, 
'The  King  is  sick  and  almost  unto  death.' 
How  could  I  excommunicate  him  then? 

Rosamund, 
And  wilt  thou  excommunicate  him  now? 

Becket. 

Daughter,  my  time  is  short,  I  shall  not  do  it. 
And  were  it  longer — well — I  should  not  do  it. 

Rosamund. 
Thanks  in  this  life,  and  in  the  life  to  come. 

Becket. 

Get  thee  back  to  thy  nunnery  with  all  haste; 
Let  this  be  thy  last  trespass.     But  one  question — 
How  fares  thy  pretty  boy,  the  little  Geoffrey  ? 
No  fever,  cough,  croup,  sickness? 

Rosamund. 

No,  but  saved 


SCENE  11.  BECKET.  187 

From  all  that  by  our  solitude.     The  plagues 
That  smite  the  city  spare  the  solitudes. 

Becket. 

God  save  him  from  all  sickness  of  the  soul ! 

Thee  too,  thy  solitude  among  thy  nuns, 

May  that  save  thee!     Doth  he  remember  me? 

Rosamund. 
I  warrant  him. 

Becket. 
He  is  marvellously  like  thee. 

Rosamund. 
Liker  the  King. 

Becket. 
No,  daughter. 

Rosamund. 

Ay,  but  wait 
Till  his  nose  rises;  he  will  be  very  king. 

Becket. 
Ev'n  so :  but  think  not  of  the  King :  farewell ! 

Rosamund. 
My  lord,  the  city  is  full  of  armed  men. 


i88  BECKET.  act  V- 

'Becket. 
Ev'n  so :  farewell ! 

Rosamund. 

I  will  but  pass  to  vespers, 
And  breathe  one  prayer  for  my  liege-lord  the  King, 
His  child  and  mine  own  soul,  and  so  return. 

Becket. 

Pray  for  me  too :  much  need  of  prayer  have  I. 

[Rosamund  kneels  and  goes. 
Dan  John,  how  much  we  lose,  we  celibates. 
Lacking  the  love  of  woman  and  of  child. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

More  gain  than  loss;  for  of  your  wives  you  shall 

Find  one  a  slut  whose  fairest  linen  seems 

Foul  as  her  dust-cloth,  if  she  used  it — one 

So  charged  with  tongue,  that  every  thread  of  thought 

Is  broken  ere  it  joins — a  shrew  to  boot. 

Whose  evil  song  far  on  into  the  night 

Thrills  to  the  topmost  tile — no  hope  but  death; 

One  slow,  fat,  white,  a  burthen  of  the  hearth; 

And  one  that  being  thwarted  ever  swoons 

And  weeps  herself  into  the  place  of  power; 

And  one  an  uxor  pauperis  Ibyci. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  189 

So  rare  the  household  honeymaking  bee, 
Man's  help!  but  we,  we  have  the  Blessed  Virgin 
For  worship,  and  our  Mother  Church  for  bride; 
And  all  the  souls  we  saved  and  father' d  here 
Will  greet  us  as  our  babes  in  Paradise. 
What  noise  was  that?  she  told  us  of  arm'd  men 
Here  in  the  city.     Will  you  not  withdraw? 

Becket. 

I  once  was  out  with  Henry  in  the  days 
When  Henry  loved  me,  and  we  came  upon 
A  wild-fowl  sitting  on  her  nest,  so  still 
I  reach'd  my  hand  and  touch'd;  she  did  not  stir; 
The  snow  had  frozen  round  her,  and  she  sat 
Stone-dead  upon  a  heap  of  ice-cold  eggs. 
Look!  how  this  love,  this  mother,  runs  thro'  all 
The  world  God  made — even  the  beast — the  bird ! 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Ay,  still  a  lover  of  the  beast  and  bird? 

But  these  arm'd  men — will  you  not  hide  yourself? 

Perchance  the  fierce  De  Brocs  from  Saltwood  Castle 

To  assail  our  Holy  Mother  lest  she  brood 

Too  long  o'er  this  hard  egg,  the  world,  and  send 

Her  whole  heart's  heat  into  it,  till  it  break 

Into  young  angels.     Pray  you,  hide  yourself. 


190  BECKET.  ACT  v, 

Becket. 

There  was  a  little  fair-hair 'd  Norman  maid 
Lived  in  my  mother's  house:  if  Rosamund  is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports  her — she 
Was  the  world's  lily. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Ay,  and  what  of  her? 

Becket. 
She  died  of  leprosy. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

I  know  not  why 
You  call  these  old  things  back  again,  my  lord. 

Becket. 

The  drowning  man,  they  say,  remembers  all 
The  chances  of  his  life,  just  ere  he  dies. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Ay — but  these  arm'd  men — \v\W.  you  dxoyvn  yourself  ? 
He  loses  half  the  meed  of  martyrdom 
Who  will  be  martyr  when  he  might  escape. 


scene  11.  becket.  191 

Becket. 
What  day  of  the  week?     Tuesday? 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Tuesday,  my  lord. 

Becket. 

On  a  Tuesday  was  I  born,  and  on  a  Tuesday 

Baptized;  and  on  a  Tuesday  did  I  fly 

Forth  from  Northampton;  on  a  Tuesday  pass'd 

From  England  into  bitter  banishment; 

On  a  Tuesday  at  Pontigny  came  to  me 

The  ghostly  warning  of  my  martyrdom; 

On  a  Tuesday  from  mine  exile  I  return' d, 

And  on  a  Tuesday 

[Tracy  enters,  then  Fitzurse,  De  Brito,  and 
De  Morville.     Monks  following. 

— on  a  Tuesday Tracy ! 

A  long  silence,  broken  by  Fitzurse  saying,  contempt- 
uously, 
God  help  thee ! 

John  of  Salisbury  {aside). 

How  the  good  Archbishop  reddens ! 
He  never  yet  could  brook  the  note  of  scorn. 


192  BECKET.  ACT  V. 

FiTZURSE. 

My  lord,  we  bring  a  message  from  the  King 
Beyond  the  water;  will  you  have  it  alone, 
Or  with  these  listeners  near  you? 

Becket. 

As  you  will. 

FiTZURSE. 

Nay,  as  you  will. 

Becket. 
Nay,  as  you  will. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Why  then 
Better  perhaps  to  speak  with  them  apart. 
Let  us  withdraw. 

[_Allgo  out  except  the  four  Knights  and  Becket. 

FiTZURSE. 

We  are  all  alone  with  him. 
Shall  I  not  smite  him  with  his  own  cross-staff? 

De  Morville. 
No,  look !  the  door  is  open :  let  him  be. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  193 


FiTZURSE. 

The  King  condemns  your  excommunicating- 


Becket. 

This  is  no  secret,  but  a  public  matter. 
In  here  again ! 

[John  of  Salisbury  and  Monks  return. 
Now,  sirs,  the  King's  commands! 

FiTZURSE. 

The  King  beyond  the  water,  thro'  our  voices, 

Commands  you  to  be  dutiful  and  leal 

To  your  young  King  on  this  side  of  the  water. 

Not  scorn  him  for  the  foibles  of  his  youth. 

What !  you  would  make  his  coronation  void 

By  cursing  those  who  crown'd  him.     Out  upon  you ! 

Becket, 

Reginald,  all  men  know  I  loved  the  Prince. 
His  father  gave  him  to  my  care,  and  I 
Became  his  second  father :  he  had  his  faults, 
For  which  I  would  have  laid  mine  own  life  down 
To  help  him  from  them,  since  indeed  I  loved  him, 
And  love  him  next  after  my  lord  his  father. 
Rather  than  dim  the  splendour  of  his  crown 
I  fain  would  treble  and  quadruple  it 

VOL.   VI.  O 


194  BECKET.  act  v. 

With  revenues,  realms,  and  golden  provinces 
So  that  were  done  in  equity. 

FiTZURSE. 

You  have  broken 
Your  bond  of  peace,  your  treaty  with  the  King — 
Wakening  such  brawls  and  loud  disturbances 
In  England,  that  he  calls  you  oversea 
To  answer  for  it  in  his  Norman  courts. 

Becket. 

Prate  not  of  bonds,  for  never,  oh,  never  again 

Shall  the  waste  voice  of  the  bond-breaking  sea 

Divide  me  from  the  mother  church  of  England, 

My  Canterbury.     Loud  disturbances ! 

Oh,  ay — the  bells  rang  out  even  to  deafening, 

Organ  and  pipe,  and  dulcimer,  chants  and  hymns 

In  all  the  churches,  trumpets  in  the  halls, 

Sobs,  laughter,  cries:  they  spread  their  raiment  down 

Before  me — would  have  made  my  pathway  flowers, 

Save  that  it  was  mid-winter  in  the  street, 

But  full  mid-summer  in  those  honest  hearts. 

FiTZURSE. 

The  King  commands  you  to  absolve  the  bishops 
Whom  you  have  excommunicated. 


scene  11.  becket.  195 

Becket. 

I? 

Not  I,  the  Pope.     Ask  him  for  absolution. 

FiTZURSE. 

But  you  advised  the  Pope. 

Becket. 

And  so  I  did. 
They  have  but  to  submit. 

The  Four  Knights. 

The  King  commands  you. 


We  are  all  King's  men. 

Becket. 

King's  men  at  least  should  know 
That  their  own  King  closed  with  me  last  July 
That  I  should  pass  the  censures  of  the  Church 
On  those  that  crown' d  young  Henry  in  this  realm, 
And  trampled  on  the  rights  of  Canterbury. 

FiTZURSE. 

What!  dare  you  charge  the  King  with  treachery? 

He  sanction  thee  to  excommunicate 

The  prelates  whom  he  chose  to  crown  his  son ! 


196  BECKET.  ACT  v. 

Becket. 

I  spake  no  word  of  treachery,  Reginald. 

But  for  the  truth  of  this  I  make  appeal 

To  all  the  archbishops,  bishops,  prelates,  barons, 

Monks,  knights,  five  hundred,   that  were  there  and 

heard. 
Nay,  you  yourself  were  there :  you  heard  yourself. 

FiTZURSE. 

I  was  not  there. 

Becket. 

I  saw  you  there. 

FiTZURSE. 

I  was  not. 
Becket. 

You  were.     I  never  forget  anything. 

FiTZURSE. 

He  makes  the  King  a  traitor,  me  a  liar. 
How  long  shall  we  forbear  him? 

John  of  Salisbury  {drawing  Becket  aside). 

O  my  good  lord, 
Speak  with  them  privately  on  this  hereafter. 
You  see  they  have  been  revelling,  and  I  fear 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  197 

Are  braced  and  brazen' d  up  with  Christmas  wines 
For  any  murderous  brawl. 

Becket. 

And  yet  they  prate 

Of  mine,  my  brawls,  when  those,  that  name  themselves 

Of  the  King's  part,  have  broken  down  our  barns, 

Wasted  our  diocese,  outraged  our  tenants, 

Lifted  our  produce,  driven  our  clerics  out — 

Why  they,  your  friends,  those  ruffians,  the  De  Brocs, 

They  stood  on  Dover  beach  to  murder  me, 

They  slew  my  stags  in  mine  own  manor  here, 

Mutilated,  poor  brute,  my  sumpter-mule. 

Plunder' d  the  vessel  full  of  Gascon  wine, 

The  old  King's  present,  carried  off  the  casks, 

Kill'd  half  the  crew,  dungeon'd  the  other  half 

In  Pevensey  Castle 

De  Morville. 

Why  not  rather  then, 
If  this  be  so,  complain  to  your  young  King, 
Not  punish  of  your  own  authority? 

Becket. 
Mine  enemies  barr'd  all  access  to  the  boy. 
They  knew  he  loved  me. 

Hugh,  Hugh,  how  proudly  you  exalt  your  head ! 
Nay,  when  they  seek  to  overturn  our  rights, 


198  BECKET.  ACT  V. 

I  ask  no  leave  of  king,  or  mortal  man, 
To  set  them  straight  again.     Alone  I  do  it. 
Give  to  the  King  the  things  that  are  the  King's, 
And  those  of  God  to  God. 

FlTZURSE. 

Threats !  threats !  ye  hear  him. 
What !  will  he  excommunicate  all  the  world  ? 

\The  Knights  come  round  Becket. 

De  Tracy. 
He  shall  not. 

De  Brito. 

Well,  as  yet — I  should  be  grateful — 
He  hath  not  excommunicated  me. 

Becket. 

Because  thou  wast  born  excommunicate. 
I  never  spied  in  thee  one  gleam  of  grace. 

De  Brito. 
Your  Christian's  Christian  charity! 


Becket. 

By  St.  Denis- 

De  Brito. 


Ay,  by  St.  Denis,  now  will  he  flame  out, 
And  lose  his  head  as  old  St.  Denis  did. 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  199 

Becket. 

Ye  think  to  scare  me  from  my  loyalty 

To  God  and  to  the  Holy  Father.     No ! 

Tho'  all  the  swords  in  England  flash'd  above  me 

Ready  to  fall  at  Henry's  word  or  yours — 

Tho'  all  the  loud-lung'd  trumpets  upon  earth 

Blared  from  the  heights  of  all  the  thrones  of  her  kings, 

Blowing  the  world  against  me,  I  would  stand 

Clothed  with  the  full  authority  of  Rome, 

Mail'd  in  the  perfect  panoply  of  faith, 

First  of  the  foremost  of  their  files,  who  die 

For  God,  to  people  heaven  in  the  great  day 

When  God  makes  up  his  jewels.     Once  I  fled— 

Never  again,  and  you — I  marvel  at  you — 

Ye  know  what  is  between  us.     Ye  have  sworn 

Yourselves  my  men  when  I  was  Chancellor — 

My  vassals — and  yet  threaten  your  Archbishop 

In  his  own  house. 

Knights. 

Nothing  can  be  between  us 
.  That  goes  against  our  fealty  to  the  King. 

FiTZURSE. 

And  in  his  name  we  charge  you  that  ye  keep 
This  traitor  from  escaping. 


200  becket.  act  v. 

Becket. 

Rest  you  easy, 
For  I  am  easy  to  keep.     I  shall  not  fly. 
Here,  here,  here  will  you  find  me. 

De  Morville. 

Know  you  not 
You  have  spoken  to  the  peril  of  your  life  ? 

Becket. 
As  I  shall  speak  again. 

FiTZURSE,  De  Tr.'^cy,  and  De  Brito. 

To  arms ! 
{_They  rusk  out,  De  Morville  lingers. 

Becket. 

De  Morville, 
I  had  thought  so  well  of  you;  and  even  now 
You  seem  the  least  assassin  of  the  four. 
Oh,  do  not  damn  yourself  for  company ! 
Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  save  your  soul? 
I  pray  you  for  one  moment  stay  and  speak. 

De  Morville. 
Becket,  it  is  too  late.  \_Exit, 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  aoi 

Becket. 

Is  it  too  late? 
Too  late  on  earth  may  be  too  soon  in  hell. 

Knights  {in  the  distance). 
Close  the  great  gate — ho,  there — upon  the  town. 

Becket's  Retainers. 

Shut  the  hall-doors.  \_A  pause. 

Becket. 

You  hear  them,  brother  John; 
Why  do  you  stand  so  silent,  brother  John? 

John  of  Salisbury. 

For  I  was  musing  on  an  ancient  saw, 

Suaviter  in  modo,fortiter  in  re, 

Is  strength  less  strong  when  hand- in-hand  with  grace? 

Gratior  in  pulchro  corpore  virtus.     Thomas, 

Why  should  you  heat  yourself  for  such  as  these  ? 

Becket. 
Methought  I  answer' d  moderately  enough. 

John  of  Salisbury. 
As  one  that  blows  the  coal  to  cool  the  fire. 


202  BECKET.  ACT  V. 

My  lord,  I  marvel  why  you  never  lean 
On  any  man's  advising  but  your  own. 

Becket. 
Is  it  so,  Dan  John?  well,  what  should  I  have  done? 

John  of  Salisbury. 

You  should  have  taken  counsel  with  your  friends 
Before  these  bandits  brake  into  your  presence. 
They  seek — you  make — occasion  for  your  death. 

Becket. 

My  counsel  is  already  taken,  John. 
I  am  prepared  to  die. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

We  are  sinners  all, 
The  best  of  all  not  all-prepared  to  die. 

Becket. 
God's  will  be  done  ! 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Ay,  well.     God's  will  be  done! 

Grim  {re-entering). 

My  lord,  the  knights  are  arming  in  the  garden 
Beneath  the  sycamore. 


scene  ii.  becket.  203 

Becket. 

Good !  let  them  arm. 

Grim. 

And  one  of  the  De  Brocs  is  with  them,  Robert, 
The  apostate  monk  that  was  with  Randulf  here. 
He  knows  the  twists  and  turnings  of  the  place. 

Becket. 
No  fear! 

Grim. 

No  fear,  my  lord. 
\_Crashes  on  the  hall-doors.      The  Monks y?^(r. 

Becket  (rising). 

Our  dovecote  flown ! 
I  cannot  tell  why  monks  should  all  be  cowards. 

John  of  Salisbury. 
Take  refuge  in  your  own  cathedral,  Thomas. 

Becket. 

Do  they  not  fight  the  Great  Fiend  day  by  day? 
Valour  and  holy  life  should  go  together. 
Why  should  all  monks  be  cowards? 


204  BECKET.  act  v. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Are  they  so  ? 
I  say,  take  refuge  in  your  own  cathedral. 

Becket. 
Ay,  but  I  told  them  I  would  wait  them  here. 

Grim. 

May  they  not  say  you  dared  not  show  yourself 
In  your  old  place  ?  and  vespers  are  beginning. 

[i?.  //  rings  for  vespers  till  end  of  sce?ie. 
You  should  attend  the  office,  give  them  heart. 
They  fear  you  slain :  they  dread  they  know  not  what. 

Becket. 
Ay,  monks,  not  men. 

Grim. 

I  am  a  monk,  my  lord. 
Perhaps,  my  lord,  you  wrong  us. 
Some  would  stand  by  you  to  the  death. 

Becket. 

Your  pardon. 

John  of  Salisbury. 
He  said,  'Attend  the  office.' 


SCENE  II.  BECKET.  205 

Becket. 

Attend  the  office? 
Why  then — The  Cross ! — who  bears  my  Cross  before 

me? 
Methought  they  would  have  brain'd  me  with  it,  John. 

[Grim  takes  it. 
Grim. 

I !     Would  that  I  could  bear  thy  cross  indeed ! 

Becket. 
The  Mitre ! 

John  of  Salisbury. 
Will  you  wear  it? — there ! 

[Becket /z^/f  on  the  mitre. 

Becket. 

The  Pall ! 

I  go  to  meet  my  King !  {Puts  on  the  pall. 

Grim. 

To  meet  the  King? 
[  Crashes  on  the  doors  as  they  go  out. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

Why  do  you  move  with  such  a  stateliness? 
Can  you  not  hear  them  yonder  like  a  storm, 
Battering  the  doors,  and  breaking  thro'  the  walls? 


2o6  BECKET.  act  v. 

Becket. 

Why  do  the  heathen  rage?     My  two  good  friends, 
What  matters  murder' d  here,  or  murder' d  there? 
And  yet  my  dream  foretold  my  martyrdom 
In  mine  own  church.     It  is  God's  will.     Go  on. 
Nay,  drag  me  not.     We  must  not  seem  to  fly. 

Scene  III. — North  Transept  of  Canterbury  Cathe- 
dral. On  the  right  hand  a  flight  of  steps  leading 
to  the  Choir,  another  flight  on  the  left,  leading 
to  the  North  Aisle.  Winter  afternoon  sloivly 
darkening.  Low  thutider  now  and  then  of  an 
approaching  storm.  Monks  heard  chanting  the 
service.     Rosamund  kneeling. 

ROSAMUNT). 

O  blessed  saint,  O  glorious  Benedict, — 

These  arm'd  men  in  the  city,  these  fierce  faces — 

Thy  holy  follower  founded  Canterbury — 

Save  that  dear  head  which  now  is  Canterbury, 

Save  him,  he  saved  my  life,  he  saved  my  child, 

Save  him,  his  blood  would  darken  Henry's  name; 

Save  him  till  all  as  saintly  as  thyself 

He  miss  the  searching  flame  of  purgatory, 

And  pass  at  once  perfect  to  Paradise. 

\Noise  of  steps  and  voices  in  the  cloisters. 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  207 

Hark!     Is  it  they?     Coming!     He  is  not  here — 
Not  yet,  thank  heaven.     O  save  him ! 

[  Goes  lip  steps  leading  to  choir. 

Becket  {^entering,  f^>rctd  along  by ^Qvm  of  Salis- 
bury a?id  Grim). 

No,  I  tell  you ! 
I  cannot  bear  a  hand  upon  my  person, 
Why  do  you  force  me  thus  against  my  will? 

Grim, 
My  lord,  we  force  you  from  your  enemies. 

Becket. 
As  you  would  force  a  king  from  being  crown' d. 

John  of  Salisbury. 

We  must  not  force  the  crown  of  martyrdom. 

\_Se mice  stops.     M.O'sks  come  down  fro tn  the  stairs 
that  lead  to  the  choir. 

Monks. 

Here  is  the  great  Archbishop !     He  lives !  he  lives ! 
Die  with  him,  and  be  glorified  together. 

Becket. 
Together?  .   .   .  get  you  back!  go  on  with  the  office. 


2o8  BECKET.  ACT  v. 

Monks. 
Come,  then,  with  us  to  vespers. 

Becket. 

How  can  I  come 
When  you  so  block  the  entry?     Back,  I  say! 
Go  on  with  the  office.     Shall  not  Heaven  be  served 
Tho'  earth's  last  earthquake  clash'd  the  minster-bells, 
And  the  great  deeps  were  broken  up  again, 
And  hiss'd  against  the  sun?       \_Noise  in  the  cloisters. 

Monks. 

The  murderers,  hark! 
Let  us  hide !  let  us  hide ! 

Becket. 

What  do  these  people  fear? 

Monks. 
Those  arm'd  men  in  the  cloister. 

Becket. 

Be  not  such  cravens ! 
I  will  go  out  and  meet  them. 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  209 

Grim  and  others. 

Shut  the  doors ! 
We  will  not  have  him  slain  before  our  face. 

\They  close  the  doors  of  the  transept.     Knocking. 
Fly,  fly,  my  lord,  before  they  burst  the  doors ! 

\_Knocking. 

Becket. 

Why,  these  are  our  own  monks  who  follow'd  us! 
And  will  you  bolt  them  out,  and  have  them  slain? 
Undo  the  doors :  the  church  is  not  a  castle : 
Knock,  and  it  shall  be  open'd.     Are  you  deaf? 
What,  have  I  lost  authority  among  you? 
Stand  by,  make  way ! 

\_Opens  the  doors.     Enter  Monks  from  cloister. 
Come  in,  my  friends,  come  in ! 
Nay,  faster,  faster! 

Monks. 

Oh,  my  lord  Archbishop, 
A  score  of  knights  all  arm'd  with  swords  and  axes — 
To  the  choir,  to  the  choir! 

Monks  divide,  part  flying  by  the  stairs  on  the  right, 
part  by  those  on  the  left.      The  rush  of  these 
last  bears  Becket  along  with  thetn  some  way 
up  the  steps,  where  he  is  left  standing  alone. 
VOL.  VI.  ._    .la^jLji^  S'-!«J'ji-\i 


2IO  BECKET.  ACT  V. 

Becket. 

Shall  I  too  pass  to  the  choir, 
And  die  upon  the  Patriarchal  throne 
Of  all  my  predecessors? 

John  of  Salisbury. 

No,  to  the  crypt! 
Twenty  steps  down.     Stumble  not  in  the  darkness. 
Lest  they  should  seize  thee. 

Grim. 

To  the  crypt?  no — no. 
To  the  chapel  of  St.  Blaise  beneath  the  roof ! 

John  OF  Salisbury  {^pointing  upward  and  downward). 
That  way,  or  this !    Save  thyself  either  way. 

Becket. 

Oh,  no,  not  either  way,  nor  any  way 

Save  by  that  way  which  leads  thro'  night  to  light. 

Not  twenty  steps,  but  one. 

And  fear  not  I  should  stumble  in  the  darkness. 

Not  tho'  it  be  their  hour,  the  power  of  darkness. 

But  my  hour  too,  the  power  of  light  in  darkness! 

I  am  not  in  the  darkness  but  the  light, 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  211 

Seen  by  the  Church  in  Heaven,  the  Church  on  earth — 
The  power  of  life  in  death  to  make  her  free ! 

{Enter  the  four  Knights.     John  of  Salisbury 
flies  to  the  altar  of  St.  Benedict. 

FiTZURSE. 

Here,  here,  King's  men! 

\_Catches  hold  of  the  last  flying  Monk. 
Where  is  the  traitor  Becket? 

Monk. 

I  am  not  he !     I  am  not  he,  my  lord. 
I  am  not  he  indeed ! 

FiTZURSE. 

Hence  to  the  fiend ! 

\^Pushes  him  away. 
Where  is  this  treble  traitor  to  the  King? 

De  Tr.\cy. 
Where  is  the  Archbishop,  Thomas  Becket? 

Becket. 

Here. 

No  traitor  to  the  King,  but  Priest  of  God, 

Primate  of  England.       {Descending  into  the  transept 

I  am  he  ye  seek. 

What  would  ye  have  of  me? 


212  BECKET.  ACTV. 

FiTZURSE. 

Your  life. 


Your  life. 


De  Tracy. 

De  Morville. 
Save  that  you  will  absolve  the  bishops. 


Becket. 

Never, — 

Except  they  make  submission  to  the  Church. 

You  had  my  answer  to  that  cry  before. 

De  Morville. 
Why,  then  you  are  a  dead  man;  flee! 

Becket. 

I  will  not. 

I  am  readier  to  be  slain,  than  thou  to  slay. 

Hugh,  I  know  well  thou  hast  but  half  a  heart 

To  bathe  this  sacred  pavement  with  my  blood. 

God  pardon  thee  and  these,  but  God's  full  curse 

Shatter  you  all  to  pieces  if  ye  harm 

One  of  my  flock  1 

FiTZURSE. 

Was  not  the  great  gate  shut? 


SCENE  III.  BECKET.  213 

They  are  thronging  in  to  vespers — half  the  town. 
We  shall  be  overwhelm'd.     Seize  him  and  carry  him! 
Come  with  us — nay — thou  art  our  prisoner — come ! 

De  Morville. 

Ay,  make  him  prisoner,  do  not  harm  the  man. 

[FiTZURSE  lays  hold  of  the  Archbishop's  pall. 

Becket. 
Touch  me  not ! 

De  Brito. 

How  the  good  priest  gods  himself ! 
He  is  not  yet  ascended  to  the  Father. 

FiTZURSE. 

I  will  not  only  touch,  but  drag  thee  hence. 

Becket. 

Thou  art  my  man,  thou  art  my  vassal.     Away! 

{Flings  him  off  till  he  reels,  almost  to  falling. 

De  Tr.'^cy  {lays  hold  of  the  pall). 
Come;  as  he  said,  thou  art  our  prisoner. 

Becket. 

Down! 

{Throws  him  headlong. 


214  BECKET.  ACTV. 

FiTZURSE  {advances  with  drawn  sword'), 
I  told  thee  that  I  should  remember  thee ! 

Becket. 
Profligate  pander! 

FiTZURSE. 

Do  you  hear  that?  strike,  strike. 
[Strikes  off  the  Archbishop's  mitre,  and  wounds 
him  in  the  forehead. 

Becket  (covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand). 

I  do  commend  my  cause  to  God,  the  Virgin, 
St.  Denis  of  France  and  St.  Alphege  of  England, 
And  all  the  tutelar  Saints  of  Canterbury. 

[Grim  wraps  his  arms  about  the  Archbishop. 
Spare  this  defence,  dear  brother. 

[Tracy  has  arisen,  and  approaches,  hesitatingly, 
with  his  sword  raised. 

FiTZURSE. 

Strike  him,  Tracy! 

Rosamund  {rushing  down  steps  from  the  choir). 
No,  No,  No,  No! 


SCENE  III. 


Hold  her  away. 


BECKET.  215 

FiTZURSE. 

This  wanton  here.     De  Morville, 

De  Morville. 
I  hold  her. 


Rosamund  {Jield  back  by  De  Morville,  and 
stretchmg  out  her  arms). 

Mercy,  mercy, 
As  you  would  hope  for  mercy. 

FiTZURSE. 

Strike,  I  say. 

Grim. 

O  God,  O  noble  knights,  O  sacrilege ! 

Strike  our  Archbishop  in  his  own  cathedral  i 

The  Pope,  the  King,  will  curse  you— the  whole  world 

Abhor  you;  ye  will  die  the  death  of  dogs! 

Nay,  nay,  good  Tracy.  {.Lifts  his  arm. 

FiTZURSE. 

Answer  not,  but  strike. 


2i6  BECKET.  ACTV. 

De  Tracy. 

There  is  my  answer  then. 

{Sword  falls  on  Grim's  arm^  and  glances  from 
it,  wounding  Becket. 

Grim. 

Mine  arm  is  sever'd. 
I  can  no  more — fight  out  the  good  fight — die 
Conqueror.     \Staggers  into  the  chapel  of  St.  Benedict. 

Becket  (^falling  on  his  knees). 

At  the  right  hand  of  Power — 
Power  and  great  glory — for  thy  Church,  O  Lord — 

Into  Thy  hands,  O  Lord — into  Thy  hands ! 

[Sinks  prone. 

De  Brito. 

This  last  to  rid  thee  of  a  world  of  brawls !  {Kills  him.) 
The  traitor's  dead,  and  will  arise  no  more. 

FiTZURSE. 

Nay,  have  we  still'd  him?     What!  the   great  Arch- 
bishop ! 
Does  he  breathe?     No? 


scene  iii.  becket.  217 

De  Tracy. 

No,  Reginald,  he  is  dead. 
{Storm  bursts.y- 
De  Morville. 
Will  the  earth  gape  and  swallow  us? 

De  Brito. 

The  deed's  done — 
Away! 

[De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse,  rush  out,  cry- 
ing 'King's  fnen!'  De  Morville  follows 
slowly.  Flashes  of  lightning  thro''  the  Cathe- 
dral, Rosamund  seen  kneeling  by  the  body  of 
Becket. 


^  A  tremendous  thunderstorm  actually  broke  over  the  Cathe- 
dral as  the  tnurderers  were  leaving  it. 


/ 


THE  FALCON, 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

The  Count  Federigo  degli  Alberighi. 
FiLlPPO,  Count's  foster-brother. 
The  Lady  Giovanna. 
Elisabetta,  the  Count's  num. 


THE    FALCON. 

Scene. — An  Italian  Cottage.      Castle  and  Mou?itatns 
seen  through  Window. 

Elisabetta  discovered  seated  on  stool  in  window  darning. 
The  Count  with  Falcon  on  his  hand  comes  down  through 
the  door  at  back.     A  withered  wreath  on  the  wall. 

Elisabetta. 

So,  my  lord,  the  Lady  Giovanna,  who  hath  been  away 
so  long,  came  back  last  night  with  her  son  to  the  castle. 

Count. 

Hear  that,  my  bird!     Art  thou  not  jealous  of  her? 
My  princess  of  the  cloud,  my  plumed  purveyor, 
My  far-eyed  queen  of  the  winds — thou  that  canst  soar 
Beyond  the  morning  lark,  and  howsoe'er 
Thy  quarry  wind  and  wheel,  swoop  down  upon  him 
Eagle-like,  lightning-like — strike,  make  his  feathers 
Glance  in  mid  heaven.  \_Crosses  to  chair. 

I  would  thou  hadst  a  mate ! 
Thy  breed  will  die  with  thee,  and  mine  with  me : 
I  am  as  lone  and  loveless  as  thyself.       \_Sits  in  chair. 

22,1 


27.2  THE  FALCON. 

Giovanna  here!     Ay,  ruffle  thyself— ^^  jealous! 

Thou  should' St  be  jealous  of  her.     Tho'  I  bred  thee 

The  fuU-train'd  marvel  of  all  falconry, 

And  love  thee  and  thou  me,  yet  if  Giovanna 

Be  here  again — No,  no !     Buss  me,  my  bird ! 

The  stately  widow  has  no  heart  for  me. 

Thou  art  the  last  friend  left  me  upon  earth — 

No,  no  again  to  that.  \_Rises  and  turns. 

My  good  old  nurse, 
I  had  forgotten  thou  wast  sitting  there. 

Elisabetta. 
Ay,  and  forgotten  thy  foster-brother  too. 

Count. 

Bird-babble  for  my  falcon !     Let  it  pass. 
What  art  thou  doing  there  ? 

Elisabetta. 

Darning  your  lordship. 
We  cannot  flaunt  it  in  new  feathers  now : 
Nay,  if  we  will  huy  diamond  necklaces 
To  please  our  lady,  we  must  darn,  my  lord. 
This  old  thing  here  (points  to  necklace  round herneck), 

they  are  but  blue  beads — my  Piero, 
God  rest  his  honest  soul,  he  bought  'em  for  me, 
Ay,  but  he  knew  I  meant  to  marry  him. 


THE  FALCON.  223 

How  couldst  thou  do  it,  my  son?     How  couldst  thou 
do  it? 

Count. 

She  saw  it  at  a  dance,  upon  a  neck 

Less  lovely  than  her  own,  and  long'd  for  it. 

Elisabetta. 
She  told  thee  as  much? 

Count. 
No,  no — a  friend  of  hers. 

Elisabetta. 

Shame  on  her  that  she  took  it  at  thy  hands, 
She  rich  enough  to  have  bought  it  for  herself ! 

Count. 
She  would  have  robb'd  me  then  of  a  great  pleasure. 

Elisabetta. 
But  hath  she  yet  return' d  thy  love? 

Count. 

Not  yet ! 

Elisabetta. 
She  should  return  thy  necklace  then. 


224  THE  FALCON. 

Count. 

Ay,  if 

She  knew  the  giver;  but  I  bound  the  seller 

To  silence,  and  I  left  it  privily 

At  Florence,  in  her  palace. 

Elisabetta. 

And  sold  thine  own 
.     .  rv  it  for  her.     She  not  know?     She  knows 
There's  none  such  other 

Count. 

Madman    .nywhere. 

Speak  freely,  tho'  to  call  a  madman  mad 

Will  hardly  help  to  make  him  sane  again. 

Enter  Filippo. 

FiLIPPO. 

Ah,  the  women,  the  women !  Ah,  Monna  Giovanna, 
you  here  again !  you  that  have  the  face  of  an  angel 
and  the  heart  of  a — that's  too  positive!  You  that 
have  a  score  of  lovers  and  have  not  a  heart  for  any  of 
them — that's  positive-negative:  you  that  have  ;;<7/the 
head  of  a  toad,  and  «^/a  heart  like  the  jewel  in  it — 
that's  too  negative;  you  that  have  a  cheek  like  a 
peach  and  a  heart  like  the  stone  in  it — that's  posi- 
tive again — that's  better! 


THE  FALCON.  225 

Elisabetta. 
Sh — sh — Filippo ! 

FiLiPPO  (ttirns  half  round). 
Here  has  our  master  been  a-glorifying  and  a-velvet- 
ing  and  a-silking  himself,  and  a-peacocking  and  a- 
spreading  to  catch  her  eye  for  a  dozen  year,  till  he 
hasn't  an  eye  left  in  his  own  tail  to  flourish  among 
the  peahens,  and  all  along  o'  you,  Monna  Giovanna, 
all  along  o'  you ! 

Elisabetta. 
Sh — sh — Filippo!      Can't  you  hear  that  you   are 
saying  behind  his  back  what  you  see  you  are  saying 
afore  his  face? 

Count. 
Let  him — he  never  spares  me  to  my  face ! 

Filippo. 

No,  my  lord,  I  never  spare  your  lordship  to  your 

lordship's  face,  nor  behind  your  lordship's  back,  nor  to 

right,  nor  to  left,  nor  to  round  about  and  back  to  your 

lordship's  face  again,  for  I'm  honest,  your  lordship. 

Count. 
Come,  come,  Filippo,  what  is  there  in  the  larder? 
[Elisabetta  crosses  to  fireplace  and  puts  on  wood. 

VOL.   VI.  Q 


226  THE  FALCON. 

FiLIPPO. 

Shelves  and  hooks,  shelves  and  hooks,  and  when  I 
see  the  shelves  I  am  like  to  hang  myself  on  the  hooks. 

Count. 
No  bread? 

FiLIPPO. 

Half  a  breakfast  for  a  rat ! 

Count. 
Milk? 

FiLIPPO. 

Three  laps  for  a  cat ! 

Count. 
Cheese  ? 

FiLIPPO. 

A  supper  for  twelve  mites. 

Count. 
Eggs? 

FiLIPPO. 

One,  but  addled. 

Count. 
No  bird? 


THE  FALCON.  227 

FiLIPPO. 

Half  a  tit  and  a  hern's  bill. 

Count. 

Let  be  thy  jokes  and  thy  jerks,  man!     Anything 
or  nothing? 

FiLIPPO. 

Well,  my  lord,  if  all-but-nothing  be  anything,  and 
one  plate  of  dried  prunes  be  all-but-nothing,  then  there 
is  anything  in  your  lordship's  larder  at  your  lordship's 
service,  if  your  lordship  care  to  call  for  it. 

Count. 

Good  mother,  happy  was  the  prodigal  son, 

For  he  return' d  to  the  rich  father;  I 

But  add  my  poverty  to  thine.     And  all 

Thro'  following  of  my  fancy.     Pray  thee  make 

Thy  slender  meal  out  of  those  scraps  and  shreds 

Filippo  spoke  of.     As  for  him  and  me. 

There  sprouts  a  salad  in  the  garden  still. 

{To  the  Falcon.^     Why  didst  thou  miss  thy  quarry 

yester-even? 
To-day,  my  beauty,  thou  must  dash  us  down 
Our  dinner  from  the  skies.     Away,  Filippo ! 

\_Exit,  followed  by  Filippo. 


228  THE  FALCON. 

Elisabetta. 

I  knew  it  would  come  to  this.  She  has  beggared 
him.  I  always  knew  it  would  come  to  this !  (  Goes  up  to 
table  as  if  to  resume  darning,  and  looks  out  of  window.) 
Why,  as  I  live,  there  is  Monna  Giovanna  coming 
down  the  hill  from  the  castle.  Stops  and  stares  at  our 
cottage.  Ay,  ay!  stare  at  it:  it's  all  you  have  left 
us.  Shame  upon  you !  She  beautiful  1  sleek  as  a 
miller's  mouse!  Meal  enough,  meat  enough,  well 
fed;  but  beautiful — bah!  Nay,  see,  why  she  turns 
down  the  path  through  our  little  vineyard,  and  I 
sneezed  three  times  this  morning.  Coming  to  visit 
my  lord,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  too  •  Why, 
bless  the  saints !  I'll  be  bound  to  confess  her  love 
to  him  at  last.  I  forgive  her,  I  forgive  her !  I  knew 
it  would  come  to  this — I  always  knew  it  must  come 
to  this!  {Going  up  to  door  during  latter  part  of 
speech  and  opem  it.)  Come  in,  Madonna,  come  in. 
{Retires  to  frotit  of  table  and  curtseys  as  the  Lady 
Giovanna  enters,  then  moves  chair  towards  the  hearth. ) 
Nay,  let  me  place  this  chair  for  your  ladyship. 

[Lady  Giovanna  moves  slowly  down  stage,  then  crosses 
to  chair,  looking  about  her,  bows  as  she  sees  the 
Madonna  over  fireplace ,  then  sits  in  chair. 

Lady  Giovanna. 
Can  I  speak  with  the  Count? 


THE  FALCON.  229 

Elisabetta. 

Ay,  my  lady,  but  won't  you  speak  with  the  old 
woman  first,  and  tell  her  all  about  it  and  make  her 
happy?  for  I've  been  on  my  knees  every  day  for  these 
half-dozen  years  in  hope  that  the  saints  would  send 
us  this  blessed  morning;  and  he  always  took  you  so 
kindly,  he  always  took  the  world  so  kindly.  When  he 
was  a  little  one,  and  I  put  the  bitters  on  my  breast  to 
wean  him,  he  made  a  wry  mouth  at  it,  but  he  took  it  so 
kindly,  and  your  ladyship  has  given  him  bitters  enough 
in  this  world,  and  he  never  made  a  wry  mouth  at  you, 
he  always  took  you  so  kindly — which  is  more  than  I 
did,  my  lady,  more  than  I  did — and  he  so  handsome 
— and  bless  your  sweet  face,  you  look  as  beautiful  this 
morning  as  the  very  Madonna  her  own  self — and 
better  late  than  never — but  come  when  they  will — 
then  or  now — it's  all  for  the  best,  come  when  they 
will — they   are   made   by  the   blessed    saints — these 

°    ■  \_Raises  her  hands. 

Lady    Giovantsta. 
Marriages  ?     I  shall  never  marry  again ! 

Elisabetta  {rises  and  fiirns). 
Shame  on  her  then ! 


230  THE  FALCON. 

Lady    Giovanna. 
Where  is  the  Count? 

Elisabetta. 

Just  gone 

To  fly  his  falcon. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

Call  him  back  and  say 
I  come  to  breakfast  with  him. 

Elisabetta. 

Holy  mother ! 
To  breakfast !     Oh  sweet  saints !  one  plate  of  prunes ! 
Well,  Madam,  I  will  give  your  message  to  him. 

\_Exit. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

His  falcon,  and  I  come  to  ask  for  his  falcon. 
The  pleasure  of  his  eyes — boast  of  his  hand — 
Pride  of  his  heart — the  solace  of  his  hours — 
His  one  companion  here — nay,  I  have  heard 
That,  thro'  his  late  magnificence  of  living 
And  this  last  costly  gift  to  mine  own  self, 

\_Sho'ws  diamond  necklace. 
He  hath  become  so  beggar' d,  that  his  falcon 
Ev'n  wins  his  dinner  for  him  in  the  field. 


THE  FALCON.  231 

That  must  be  talk,  not  truth,  but  truth  or  talk, 
How  can  I  ask  for  his  falcon? 

\Rises  and  moves  as  she  speaks. 
O  my  sick  boy ! 
My  daily  fading  Florio,  it  is  thou 
Hath  set  me  this  hard  task,  for  when  I  say 
What  can  I  do — what  can  I  get  for  thee  ? 
He  answers,  'Get  the  Count  to  give  me  his  falcon, 
And  that  will  make  me  well.'     Yet  if  I  ask, 
He  loves  me,  and  he  knows  I  know  he  loves  me ! 
Will  he  not  pray  me  to  return  his  love — 
To  marry  him? — {pause) — I  can  never  marry  him. 
His  grandsire  struck  my  grandsire  in  a  brawl 
At  Florence,  and  my  grandsire  stabb'd  him  there. 
The  feud  between  our  houses  is  the  bar 
I  cannot  cross;  I  dare  not  brave  my  brother. 
Break  with  my  kin.     My  brother  hates  him,  scorns 
The  noblest-natured  man  alive,  and  I — 
Who  have  that  reverence  for  him  that  I  scarce 
Dare  beg  him  to  receive  his  diamonds  back — 
How  can  I,  dare  I,  ask  him  for  his  falcon? 

\_Puts  diamonds  in  her  casket 

Re-enter  Count  and  Filippo.     Count  turns 
to  Filippo. 

Count. 
Do  what  I  said;  I  cannot  do  it  myself. 


232  THE  FALCON. 

FiLIPPO. 

Why  then,  my  lord,  we  are  pauper 'd  out  and  out. 

Count. 

Do  what  I  said  !  \_Advances  and  bows  low. 

Welcome  to  this  poor  cottage,  my  dear  lady. 

Lady  Giovanna. 
And  welcome  turns  a  cottage  to  a  palace. 

Count. 
'Tis  long  since  we  have  met! 

Lady  Giovanna. 

To  make  amends 
I  come  this  day  to  break  my  fast  with  you. 

Count. 

I  am  much  honour'd — yes —  \_Ttirns  to  Filippo. 

Do  what  I  told  thee.     Must  I  do  it  myself? 

Filippo. 
I  will,  I  will.     {Sighs.)     Poor  fellow!  \_Exit. 

Count. 

Lady,  you  bring  your  light  into  my  cottage 
Who  never  deign'd  to  shine  into  my  palace. 


THE  FALCON.  233 

My  palace  wanting  you  was  but  a  cottage ; 
My  cottage,  while  you  grace  it,  is  a  palace. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

In  cottage  or  in  palace,  being  still 

Beyond  your  fortunes,  you  are  still  the  king 

Of  courtesy  and  liberality. 

Count. 
I  trust  I  still  maintain  my  courtesy; 
My  liberality  perforce  is  dead 
Thro'  lack  of  means  of  giving. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

Yet  I  come 
To  ask  a  gift.  \_Moves  toward  him  a  little. 

Count. 
It  will  be  hard,  I  fear, 
To  find  one  shock  upon  the  field  when  all 
The  harvest  has  been  carried. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

But  my  boy — 
{Aside.)     No,  no!  not  yet— I  cannot! 

Count. 

Ay,  how  is  he, 

That  bright  inheritor  of  your  eyes— your  boy? 


234  THE  FALCON. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

Alas,  my  Lord  Federigo,  he  hath  fallen 
Into  a  sickness,  and  it  troubles  me. 

Count. 
Sick!  is  it  so?  why,  when  he  came  last  year 
To  see  me  hawking,  he  was  well  enough : 
And  then  I  taught  him  all  our  hawking-phrases. 

Lady   Giovanna. 
Oh  yes,  and  once  you  let  him  fly  your  falcon. 

Count. 

How  charm'd  he  was!  what  wonder? — A  gallant  boy, 
A  noble  bird,  each  perfect  of  the  breed. 

Lady   Giovanna  {sinks  in  chair). 
What  do  you  rate  her  at? 

Count. 

My  bird?  a  hundred 
Gold  pieces  once  were  offer' d  by  the  Duke. 
I  had  no  heart  to  part  with  her  for  money. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

No,  not  for  money.        [Count  turns  away  and  sighs. 

Wherefore  do  you  sigh? 


THE  FALCON.  235 

Count. 
I  have  lost  a  friend  of  late. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

I  could  sigh  with  you 
For  fear  of  losing  more  than  friend,  a  son; 
And  if  he  leave  me— all  the  rest  of  life— 
That  wither' d  wreath  were  of  more  worth  to  me. 

\_Looking  at  wreath  on  wall. 

Count. 

That  wither' d  wreath  is  of  more  worth  to  me 
Than  all  the  blossom,  all  the  leaf  of  this 
New-wakening  year.      [  Goes  and  takes  down  wreath. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

And  yet  I  never  saw 
The  land  so  rich  in  blossom  as  this  year. 

Count  {holding  wreath  toward  her). 
Was  not  the  year  when  this  was  gather' d  richer? 

Lady   Giovanna. 
How  long  ago  was  that? 

Count. 

Alas,  ten  summers ! 


236  THE  FALCON. 

A  lady  that  was  beautiful  as  day 

Sat  by  me  at  a  rustic  festival 

With  other  beauties  on  a  mountain  meadow, 

And  she  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all; 

Then  but  fifteen,  and  still  as  beautiful. 

The  mountain  flowers  grew  thickly  round  about. 

I  made  a  wreath  with  some  of  these;  I  ask'd 

A  ribbon  from  her  hair  to  bind  it  with; 

I  whisper'd,  Let  me  crown  you  Queen  of  Beauty, 

And  softly  placed  the  chaplet  on  her  head. 

A  colour,  which  has  colour' d  all  my  life, 

Flush'd  in  her  face;  then  I  was  call'd  away; 

And  presently  all  rose,  and  so  departed. 

Ah !  she  had  thrown  my  chaplet  on  the  grass, 

And  there  I  found  it. 

\_Lets  his  hands  fall,  holding  wreath  despondingly. 

Lady   Giovanna  {after pause). 

How  long  since  do  you  say? 

Count. 
That  was  the  very  year  before  you  married. 

Lady  Giovanna. 
When  I  was  married  you  were  at  the  wars. 


THE  FALCON.  237 

Count. 

Had  she  not  thrown  my  chaplet  on  the  grass, 
It  may  be  I  had  never  seen  the  wars. 

\_Replaces  wreath  whence  he  had  taken  it. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

Ah,  but,  my  lord,  there  ran  a  rumour  then 
That  you  were  kill'd  in  battle,     I  can  tell  you 
True  tears  that  year  were  shed  for  you  in  Florence. 

Count. 

It  might  have  been  as  well  for  me.     Unhappily 
I  was  but  wounded  by  the  enemy  there 
And  then  imprison' d. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

Happily,  however, 
I  see  you  quite  recover' d  of  your  wound. 

Count. 
No,  no,  not  quite,  Madonna,  not  yet,  not  yet. 

Re-enter  Filippo. 

FiLIPPO. 

My  lord,  a  word  with  you. 


238  THE  FALCON. 

Count. 

Pray,  pardon  me ! 
[Lady  Giovanna  crosses,  and  passes  behind  chair 
and  takes  down  wreath  ;  then  goes  to  chair  by 
table. 

Count  (Jo  Filippo). 
What  is  it,  Filippo? 

Filippo. 
Spoons,  your  lordship. 

Count. 

Spoons ! 

Filippo. 

Yes,  my  lord,  for  wasn't  my  lady  born  with  a  golden 
spoon  in  her  ladyship's  mouth,  and  we  haven't  never 
so  much  as  a  silver  one  for  the  golden  lips  of  her 
ladyship. 

Count. 
Have  we  not  half  a  score  of  silver  spoons? 

Filippo. 
Half  o'  one,  my  lord ! 

Count. 
How  half  of  one? 


THE  FALCON.  239 

FiLIPPO. 

I  trod  upon  him  even  now,  my  lord,  in  my  hurry, 
and  broke  him. 

Count. 
And  the  other  nine  ? 

FiLIPPO. 

Sold!  but  shall  I  not  mount  with  your  lordship's 
leave  to  her  ladyship's  castle,  in  your  lordship's  and 
her  ladyship's  name,  and  confer  with  her  ladyship's 
seneschal,  and  so  descend  again  with  some  of  her 
ladyship's  own  appurtenances? 

Count. 

Why — no,  man.     Only  see  your  cloth  be  clean. 

\_Exit  FiLIPPO. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

Ay,  ay,  this  faded  ribbon  was  the  mode 

In  Florence  ten  years  back.     What's  here?  a  scroll 

Pinn'd  to  the  wreath. 

My  lord,  you  have  said  so  much 
Of  this  poor  wreath  that  I  was  bold  enough 
To  take  it  down,  if  but  to  guess  what  flowers 
Had  made  it;  and  I  find  a  written  scroll 
That  seems  to  run  in  rhymings.     Might  I  read? 


240  THE  FALCON. 

Count. 
Ay,  if  you  will. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

It  should  be  if  you  can. 
{Reads.)     'Dead  mountain.'     Nay,   for   who  could 

trace  a  hand 
So  wild  and  staggering? 

Count. 

This  was  penn'd,  Madonna, 
Close  to  the  grating  on  a  winter  morn 
In  the  perpetual  twilight  of  a  prison, 
When  he  that  made  it,  having  his  right  hand 
Lamed  in  the  battle,  \\TOte  it  with  his  left. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

O  heavens !  the  very  letters  seem  to  shake 

With  cold,  with  pain  perhaps,  poor  prisoner !     Well, 

Tell  me  the  words— or  better — for  I  see 

There  goes  a  musical  score  along  with  them, 

Repeat  them  to  their  music. 

Count. 

You  can  touch 
No  chord  in  me  that  would  not  answer  you 
In  music. 


THE  FALCON.  241 


Lady   Giovanna. 


That  is  musically  said. 
[Count  takes  guitar.     Lady  Giovanna  sits  listening 
with  wreath  in  her  hand,  and  quietly  removes 
scroll  and  places  it  on  table  at  the  end  of  the  song. 

Count  {sings,  playing  guitar). 

'Dead    mountain    flowers,    dead    mountain-meadow 

flowers, 
Dearer  than  when  you  made  your  mountain  gay, 
Sweeter  than  any  violet  of  to-day. 
Richer  than  all  the  wide  world-wealth  of  May, 
To  me,  tho'  all  your  bloom  has  died  away, 
You  bloom  again,  dead  mountain-meadow  flowers. ' 

Enter  Elisabeita  with  cloth. 

Elisabetta. 
A  word  with  you,  my  lord ! 

Count  (singing). 

'  O  mountain  flowers ! ' 

Elisabeita. 
A  word,  my  lord!  (Louder). 

Count  (sings). 
'  Dead  flowers ! ' 

VOL.    VI.  R 


242  THE  FALCON. 

Elisabeita. 

A  word,  my  lord!  {Louder). 

Count. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  again ! 

[Lady   Giovanna,  looking  at  wreath. 

(Count  to  Elisabetta.) 

What  is  it? 

Elisabetta. 

My  lord,  we  have  but  one  piece  of  earthenware  to 
serve  the  salad  in  to  my  lady,  and  that  cracked ! 

Count. 

Why  then,  that  flower 'd  bowl  my  ancestor 
Fetch 'd  from  the  farthest  east — we  never  use  it 
For  fear  of  breakage — but  this  day  has  brought 
A  great  occasion.     You  can  take  it,  nurse ! 

Elisabetta. 
I  did  take  it,  my  lord,  but  what  with  my  lady's  com- 
ing that  had  so  flurried  me,  and  what  with  the  fear  of 
breaking  it,  I  did  break  it,  my  lord :  it  is  broken ! 

Count. 

My  one  thing  left  of  value  in  the  world ! 
No  matter!  see  your  cloth  be  white  as  snow! 


THE  FALCON.  243 

Elisabetta  (^pointing  thro^  window). 
White  ?    I  warrant  thee,  my  son,  as  the  snow  yonder 
on  the  very  tip-top  o'  the  mountain. 

Count. 
And  yet  to  speak  white  truth,  my  good  old  mother, 
I  have  seen  it  like  the  snow  on  the  moraine. 

Elisabetta. 
How  can  your  lordship  say  so?     There,  my  lord ! 

\_Lays  cloth. 

0  my  dear  son,  be  not  unkind  to  me. 

And  one  word  more.  [Goifig — returns. 

Count  {touching  guitar). 

Good  !  let  it  be  but  one. 

Elisabetta. 
Hath  she  return'd  thy  love? 

Count. 

Not  yet ! 

Elisabeita. 

And  will  she? 

Count  {looking  at  Lady  Giovanna). 

1  scarce  believe  it ! 

Elisabetta. 

Shame  upon  her  then!       \Exit 


244  THE  FALCON. 

Count  {sings). 

'Dead  mountain  flowers ' 

Ah  well,  my  nurse  has  broken 
The  thread  of  my  dead  flowers,  as  she  has  broken 
My  china  bowl.     My  memory  is  as  dead. 

[  Goes  and  replaces  guitar. 
Strange  that  the  words  at  home  with  me  so  long 
Should  fly  like  bosom  friends  when  needed  most. 
So  by  your  leave  if  you  would  hear  the  rest, 
The  writing. 

Lady   Giovanna  (holding  wreath  toward  hint). 

There !  my  lord,  you  are  a  poet, 
And  can  you  not  imagine  that  the  wreath, 
Set,  as  you  say,  so  lightly  on  her  head. 
Fell  with  her  motion  as  she  rose,  and  she, 
A  girl,  a  child,  then  but  fifteen,  however 
Flutter' d  or  flatter' d  by  your  notice  of  her, 
Was  yet  too  bashful  to  return  for  it? 

Count. 

Was  it  so  indeed?  was  it  so?  was  it  so? 

[Leans  foi-ward  to  take  wreath,  and  touches  Lady 
Giovanna's  hand,  which  she  withdraws  hastily  ; 
he  places  wreath  on  corner  of  chair. 


THE  FALCON.  245 


Lady   Giovanna  {with  dignity). 


I  did  not  say,  my  lord,  that  it  was  so; 
I  said  you  might  imagine  it  was  so. 


Enter  Filippo  with  bowl  of  salad,  which  he  places 

on  table. 

Filippo. 

Here's  a  fine  salad  for  my  lady,  for  tho'  we  have 
been  a  soldier,  and  ridden  by  his  lordship's  side,  and 
seen  the  red  of  the  battle-field,  yet  are  we  now  drill- 
sergeant  to  his  lordship's  lettuces,  and  profess  to  be 
great  in  green  things  and  in  garden-stuff. 

Lady  Giovanna. 
I  thank  you,  good  Filippo.  \_Exit  Filippo. 

Enter  Elisabetta  with  bird  on  a  dish  which  she 
places  on  table. 

Elisabetta  {close  to  table). 

Here's  a  fine  fowl  for  my  lady;  I  had  scant  time  to 
do  him  in.  I  hope  he  be  not  underdone,  for  we  be 
undone  in  the  doing  of  him. 


246  THE  FALCON. 

Lady  Giovanna. 
I  thank  you,  my  good  nurse, 

FiLippo  {re-entering  with  plate  of  prunes). 

And  here  are  fine  fruits  for  my  lady — prunes,  my 
lady,  from  the  tree  that  my  lord  himself  planted  here  in 
the  blossom  of  his  boyhood — and  so  I,  Filippo,  being, 
with  your  ladyship's  pardon,  and  as  your  ladyship 
knows,  his  lordship's  own  foster-brother,  would  com- 
mend them  to  your  ladyship's  most  peculiar  apprecia- 
tion. \_Puts  plate  on  table. 

Elisabetta. 
Filippo ! 

Lady   Giovanna  (Count  leads  her  to  table). 
Will  you  not  eat  with  me,  my  lord  ? 

Count. 

I  cannot. 

Not  a  morsel,  not  one  morsel.     I  have  broken 

My  fast  already.     I  will  pledge  you.     Wine ! 

Filippo,  wine ! 

[^Sits   near   table ;  Filippo  brings  flask,  fills  the 

Count's    goblet,    then     Lady     Giovanna' s; 

Elisabetta    stands    at    the    back    of   Lady 

Giovanna 's  chair. 


THE  FALCON.  247 

Count. 

It  is  but  thin  and  cold, 
Not  like  the  vintage  blowing  round  your  castle. 
We  lie  too  deep  down  in  the  shadow  here. 
Your  ladyship  lives  higher  in  the  sun. 

\They  pledge  each  other  and  drink. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

If  I  might  send  you  down  a  flask  or  two 
Of  that  same  vintage?     There  is  iron  in  it. 
It  has  been  much  commended  as  a  medicine. 
I  give  it  my  sick  son,  and  if  you  be 
Not  quite  recover'd  of  your  wound,  the  wine 
Might  help  you.     None  has  ever  told  me  yet 
The  story  of  your  battle  and  your  wound. 

FiLiPPO  {coming  forward^. 
I  can  tell  you,  my  lady,  I  can  tell  you. 

Elisabetta. 

Filippo !  will  you  take  the  word  out  of  your  master's 
own  mouth? 

Filippo. 
Was  it  there  to  take?     Put  it  there,  my  lord. 


848  THE  FALCON. 

Count. 

Giovanna,  my  dear  lady,  in  this  same  battle 
We  had  been  beaten — they  were  ten  to  one. 
The  trumpets  of  the  fight  had  echo'd  down, 
I  and  Filippo  here  had  done  our  best. 
And,  having  passed  unwounded  from  the  field, 
Were  seated  sadly  at  a  fountain  side. 
Our  horses  grazing  by  us,  when  a  troop. 
Laden  with  booty  and  with  a  flag  of  ours 
Ta'en  in  the  fight 

Filippo. 

Ay,  but  we  fought  for  it  back. 


And  kill'd- 

Elisabetta. 
Filippo! 

Count. 

A  troop  of  horse 

Fn.TPPO. 

Five  hundred ! 

Count. 

Say  fifty! 

Filippo. 

And 

we  kill'd  'em  by  the  score! 

THE  FALCON.  249 

Elisabetta. 
Filippo! 

FiLIPPO. 

Well,  well,  well !     I  bite  my  tongue. 

Count.  / 

We  may  have  left  their  fifty  less  by  five.  / 

However,  staying  not  to  count  how  many. 

But  anger'd  at  their  flaunting  of  our  flag, 

We  mounted,  and  we  dashed  into  the  heart  of  'em. 

1  wore  the  lady's  chaplet  round  my  neck; 

It  served  me  for  a  blessed  rosary. 

I  am  sure  that  more  than  one  brave  fellow  owed 

His  death  to  the  charm  in  it. 

Elisabetta. 

Hear  that,  my  lady ! 

Count. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  we  strove  before 

Our  horses  fell  beneath  us;  down  we  went 

Crush' d,  hack'd  at,  trampled  underfoot.     The  night, 

As  some  cold-manner'd  friend  may  strangely  do  us 

The  truest  service,  had  a  touch  of  frost 

That  help'd  to  check  the  flowing  of  the  blood. 

My  last  sight  ere  I  swoon 'd  was  one  sweet  face 


250  '  THE  FALCON. 

Crown' d  with  the  wreath.     That  seem'd  to  come  and 

go. 

They  left  us  there  for  dead ! 

Elisabetta. 

Hear  that,  my  lady ! 

FiLIPPO. 

Ay,  and  I  left  two  fingers  there  for  dead.     See,  my 
lady!     (Showing  his  hand.) 

Lady   Giovanna. 
I  see,  Filippo! 

FiLIPPO. 

And  I  have  small  hope  of  the  gentleman  gout  in 
my  great  toe. 

Lady   Giovanna. 
And  why,  Filippo?  \Smiling absently. 

Filippo. 
I  left  him  there  for  dead  too ! 

Elisabetta. 

She  smiles  at  him — how  hard  the  woman  is! 
My  lady,  if  your  ladyship  were  not 
Too  proud  to  look  upon  the  garland,  you 
Would  find  it  stain'd 


THE  FALCON.  251 

Count  {rising). 

Silence,  Elisabetta! 

Elisabetta. 

Stain' d  with  the  blood  of  the  best  heart  that  ever 
Beat  for  one  woman.  [Faints  to  wreath  on  chair. 

Lady  Giovanna  {rising  slowly). 
I  can  eat  no  more ! 

Count. 

You  have  but  trifled  with  our  homely  salad, 
But  dallied  with  a  single  lettuce-leaf; 
Not  eaten  anything. 

Lady   Giovanna. 

Nay,  nay,  I  cannot. 
You  know,  my  lord,  I  told  you  I  was  troubled. 
My  one  child  Florio  lying  still  so  sick, 
I  bound  myself,  and  by  a  solemn  vow, 
That  I  would  touch  no  flesh  till  he  were  well 
Here,  or  else  well  in  Heaven,  where  all  is  well. 
[Elisabetta  clears  table  of  bird  and  salad :  Filippo 
snatches  up  the  plate  of  prunes  and  holds  them 
to  Lady  Giovanna. 


252  THE  FALCON. 

FlLIPPO. 

But  the  prunes,  my  lady,  from  the  tree  that  his 
lordship 

Lady  Giovanna. 

Not  now,  Filippo.     My  lord  Federigo, 
Can  I  not  speak  with  you  once  more  alone  ? 

Count. 
You  hear,  Filippo?     My  good  fellow,  go! 

Filippo. 
But  the  prunes  that  your  lordship 

Elisabetta. 
Filippo ! 

Count. 
Ay,  prune  our  company  of  thine  own  and  go ! 

Eusabetta. 
Filippo! 

Filippo  {turning). 

Well,  well !  the  women !  \_Exit. 

Count. 

And  thou  too  leave  us,  my  dear  nurse,  alone. 


THE  FALCON.  253 

Elisabetta  {fohfing  tip  cloth  and  going). 

And  me  too !  Ay,  the  dear  nurse  will  leave  you 
alone;  but,  for  all  that,  she  that  has  eaten  the  yolk  is 
scarce  like  to  swallow  the  shell. 

[  Turns  and  curtseys  stiffly  to  Lady  Giovanna,  then 
exit.  Lady  Giovanna  takes  out  diamond  neck- 
lace from  casket. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

I  have  anger' d  your  good  nurse;  these  old-world  ser- 
vants 
Are  all  but  flesh  and  blood  with  those  they  serve. 
My  lord,  I  have  a  present  to  return  you, 
And  afterwards  a  boon  to  crave  of  you. 

Count. 

No,  my  most  honour' d  and  long-worshipt  lady, 

Poor  Federigo  degli  Alberighi 

Takes  nothing  in  return  from  you  except 

Return    f  his  affection — can  deny 

Nothing  to  you  that  you  require  of  him. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

Then  I  require  you  to  take  back  your  diamonds — 

[  Offering  necklace. 
I  doubt  not  they  are  yours.     No  other  heart 


254  THE  FALCON. 

Of  such  magnificence  in  courtesy 

Beats — out  of  heaven.     They  seem'd  too  rich  a  prize 

To  trust  with  any  messenger.     I  came 

In  person  to  return  them.  [  Count  drmvs  back. 

If  the  phrase 
'Return'  displease  you,  we  will  say — exchange  them 
For  your — for  your 

Count  {takes  a  step  toward  her  and  then  back). 

For  mine — and  what  of  mine? 

Lady   Giovanna. 
Well,  shall  we  say  this  wreath  and  your  sweet  rhymes? 

Count. 
But  have  you  ever  worn  my  diamonds? 

Lady   Giovanna. 

No! 

For  that  would  seem  accepting  of  your  love. 

I  cannot  brave  my  brother — but  be  sure 

That  I  shall  never  marry  again,  my  lord ! 

Count. 
Sure  ? 

Lady  Giovanna. 

Yes! 

Count. 

Is  this  your  brother's  order? 


THE  FALCON.  255 

Lady   Giovanna. 

No! 

For  he  would  marrv  me  to  the  richest  man 
In  Florence;  but  I  think  you  know  the  saying — 
'Better  a  man  without  riches,  than  riches  without  a 
man.' 

Count. 

A  noble  saying — and  acted  on  would  yield 
A  nobler  breed  of  men  and  women.     Lady, 
I  find  you  a  shrewd  bargainer.     The  wreath 
That  once  you  wore  outvalues  twentyfold 
The  diamonds  that  you  never  deign'd  to  wear. 
But  lay  them  there  for  a  moment ! 

[Foints  to  table.     Lady  Giovanna  places  necklace 
071  table. 

And  be  you 
Gracious  enough  to  let  me  know  the  boon 
By  granting  which,  if  aught  be  mine  to  grant, 
I  should  be  made  more  happy  than  I  hoped 
Ever  to  be  again. 

Lady  Giovanna. 
Then  keep  your  wreath, 
But  you  will  find  me  a  shrewd  bargainer  still. 
I  cannot  keep  your  diamonds,  for  the  gift 
I  ask  for,  to  my  mind  and  at  this  present 
Outvalues  all  the  jewels  upon  earth. 


256  THE  FALCON. 

Count. 
It  should  be  love  that  thus  outvalues  all. 
You  speak  like  love,  and  yet  you  love  me  not. 
I  have  nothing  in  this  world  but  love  for  you. 

Lady   Giovanna. 
Love?  it  is  love,  love  for  my  dying  boy, 
Moves  me  to  ask  it  of  you. 

Count. 

What?  my  time? 
Is  it  my  time?     Well,  I  can  give  my  time 
To  him  that  is  a  part  of  you,  your  son. 
Shall  I  return  to  the  castle  with  you?     Shall  I 
Sit  by  him,  read  to  him,  tell  him  my  tales, 
Sing  him  my  songs?     You  know  that  I  can  touch 
The  ghittern  to  some  purpose. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

No,  not  that ! 
I  thank  you  heartily  for  that — and  you, 
I  doubt  not  from  your  nobleness  of  nature. 
Will  pardon  me  for  asking  what  I  ask. 

Count. 
Giovanna,  dear  Giovanna,  I  that  once 
The  wildest  of  the  random  youth  of  Florence 
Before  I  saw  you — all  my  nobleness 


THE   FALCON.  257 

Of  nature,  as  you  deign  to  call  it,  draws 
From  you,  and  from  my  constancy  to  you. 
No  more,  but  speak. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

I  will.     You  know  sick  people, 
More  specially  sick  children,  have  strange  fancies, 
Strange  longings;  and  to  thwart  them  in  their  mood 
May  work  them  grievous  harm  at  times,  may  even 
Hasten  their  end.     I  would  you  had  a  son! 
It  might  be  easier  then  for  you  to  make 
Allowance  for  a  mother — her — who  comes 
To  rob  you  of  your  one  delight  on  earth. 
How  often  has  my  sick  boy  yearn'd  for  this! 
I  have  put  him  off  as  often;  but  to-day 
I  dared  not — so  much  weaker,  so  much  worse 
For  last  day's  journey.     I  was  weeping  for  him; 
He  gave  me  his  hand:  'I  should  be  well  again 
If  the  good  Count  would  give  me ' 


Count. 

Lady  Giovanna. 

Count  (starts  back). 


Give  me. 

His  falcon, 


My  falcon 


VOL.   VI. 


Lady   Giovanna. 
Yes,  your  falcon,  Federigo ! 


I 


258  TJI£:  FALCON. 

Count. 
Alas,  I  cannot! 

Lady   Giovanna. 

Cannot  ?     Even  so ! 
I  fear'd  as  much.     O  this  unhappy  world ! 
How  shall  I  break  it  to  him?  how  shall  I  tell  him? 
The  boy  may  die :  more  blessed  were  the  rags 
Of  some  pale  beggar-woman  seeking  alms 
For  her  sick  son,  if  he  were  like  to  live. 
Than  all  my  childless  wealth,  if  mine  must  die. 
I  was  to  blame — the  love  you  said  you  bore  me — 
My  lord,  we  thank  you  for  your  entertainment, 

[  With  a  stately  curtsey. 
And  so  return — Heaven  help  him ! — to  our  son. 

\_Tiirns. 
Count  {rushes  forward^. 

Stay,  stay,  I  am  most  unlucky,  most  unhappy. 
You  never  had  look'd  in  on  me  before. 
And  when  you  came  and  dipt  your  sovereign  head 
Thro'  these  low  doors,  you  ask'd  to  eat  with  me. 
I  had  but  emptiness  to  set  before  you. 
No  not  a  draught  of  milk,  no  not  an  egg, 
Nothing  but  my  brave  bird,  my  noble  falcon, 
My  comrade  of  the  house,  and  of  the  field. 
She  had  to  die  for  it — she  died  for  you. 
Perhaps  I  thought  with  those  of  old,  the  nobler 


THE  FALCON.  259 

The  victim  was,  the  more  acceptable 
Might  be  the  sacrifice.     I  fear  you  scarce 
Will  thank  me  for  your  entertainment  now. 

Lady   Giovanna  {?'e turning). 
I  bear  with  him  no  longer. 

Count. 

No,  Madonna! 
And  he  will  have  to  bear  with  it  as  he  may. 

Lady   Giovanna. 
I  break  with  him  for  ever ! 

Count. 

Yes,  Giovanna, 
But  he  will  keep  his  love  to  you  for  ever ! 

Lady  Giovanna. 

You?  you?  not  you!     My  brother!  my  hard  brother ! 
O  Federigo,  Federigo,  I  love  you ! 
Spite  of  ten  thousand  brothers,  Federigo. 

\_Falls  at  his  feet. 

Count  {impetiiotisly). 

Why  then  the  dying  of  my  noble  bird 
Hath  served  me  better  than  her  living — then 

{Takes  diamonds  from  table. 


26o  THE  FALCON. 

These  diamonds  are  both  yours  and  mine — have  won 
Their  value  again — beyond  all  markets — there 
I  lay  them  for  the  first  time  round  your  neck. 

\^Lays  necklace  round  her  neck. 
And  then  this  chaplet — No  more  feuds,  but  peace, 
Peace  and  conciliation !     I  will  make 
Your  brother  love  me.     See,  I  tear  away 
The  leaves  were  darken' d  by  the  battle — 

\Pulls  leaves  off  and  throws  them  down. 

— crown  you 
Again  with  the  same  crown  my  Queen  of  Beauty. 

{Places  wreath  on  her  head. 
Rise — I  could  almost  think  that  the  dead  garland 
Will  break  once  more  into  the  living  blossom. 
Nay,  nay,  I  pray  you  rise. 

{Raises  her  with  both  hands. 
We  two  together 
Will  help  to  heal  your  son — your  son  and  mine — 
We  shall  do  it — we  shall  do  it.  {Embraces  her. 

The  purpose  of  my  being  is  accomplish'd. 
And  I  am  happy ! 

Lady  Giovanna. 
And  I  too,  Federigo. 


THE   FORESTERS 


THE    FORESTERS 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  MAID  MARIAN 


BY 


ALFRED 
LORD    TENNYSON 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO„ 


ACT  I 

SCENE   I 

THE  BOND 

SCENES   II,    III 

THE   OUTLAWRY 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Robin  Hood,  Earl  of  Huntingdon. 
King  Richard,  Cosur  de  Lion. 
Prince  John. 
Little  John, 


Follo'vers  of  Robin  Hood. 


Will  Scarlet, 

Friar  Tuck, 

Much, 

A  Justiciary. 

Sheriff  of  Nottingham. 

Abbot  of  St.  Mary's. 

Sir  Richard  Lea. 

Walter  Lea,  son  of  Sir  Richard  Lea. 

Maid  Marian,  daughter  of  Sir  Richard  Lea. 

Kate,  attendant  on  Marian. 

Old  Woman. 

Retaitiers,  Messengers,  Merry  Men,  Mercenaries,  Friars, 
Beggars,  Sailors,  Peasants  {tnen  and  womefi),  &'c. 


THE    FORESTERS 


ACT  I 

Scene  I. — The  garden  before  Sir  Richard 
Lea's  castle. 

Kate  ( gathering  flowers) . 

These  roses  for  my  Lady  Marian ;  these  lilies  to 
lighten  Sir  Richard's  black  room,  where  he  sits  and 
eats  his  heart  for  want  of  money  to  pay  the  Abbot. 

\_Sings. 
The  warrior  Earl  of  Allendale, 

He  loved  the  Lady  Anne; 
The  lady  loved  the  master  well, 
The  maid  she  loved  the  man. 

All  in  the  castle  garden. 

Or  ever  the  day  began. 

The  lady  gave  a  rose  to  the  Earl, 

The  maid  a  rose  to  the  man. 

269 


270  THE  FORESTERS  ACT  i 

*Igo  to  fight  in  Scotland 

With  many  a  savage  clan ;  ' 
The  lady  gave  her  hand  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  her  hand  to  the  man. 

*  Farewell,  farewell,  my  warrior  Earl !'' 
And  ever  a  tear  down  ran. 
She  gave  a  weeping  kiss  to  the  Earl, 
And  the  maid  a  kiss  to  the  man. 

Enter  four  ragged  Retainers. 

First  Retainer. 
You  do  well,  Mistress  Kate,  to  sing  and  to  gather 
roses.     You  be  fed  with  tit-bits,  you,  and  we  be  dogs 
that  have  only  the  bones,  till  we  be  only  bones  our 
own  selves. 

Second  Retainer. 

I  am  fed  with  tit-bits  no  more  than  you  are,  but 
I  keep  a  good  heart  and  make  the  most  of  it,  and, 
truth  to  say,  Sir  Richard  and  my  Lady  Marian  fare 
wellnigh  as  sparely  as  their  people. 

Third  Retainer. 
And  look  at  our  suits,  out  at  knee,  out  at  elbow. 
We  be  more  like  scarecrows  in  a  field  than  decent 
serving  men;   and  then,  I  pray  you.,  look  at  Robin 
Earl  of  Huntingdon's  men. 


scene  i  the  foresters  271 

First  Retainer. 
She  hath  looked  well  at  one  of  'em,  Little  John. 

Third  Retainer. 
Ay,  how  fine  they  be  in  their  liveries,  and  each  of 
'em  as  full  of  meat  as  an  egg,  and  as  sleek  and  as 
round-about  as  a  mellow  codlin. 

Fourth  Retainer. 

But  I  be  worse  off  than  any  of  you,  for  I  be  lean 
by  nature,  and  if  you  cram  me  crop-full  I  be  little 
better  than  Famine  in  the  picture,  but  if  you  starve 
me  I  be  Gaffer  Death  himself.  I  would  like  to  show 
you,  Mistress  Kate,  how  bare  and  spare  I  be  on  the 
rib :  I  be  lanker  than  an  old  horse  turned  out  to  die 
on  the  common. 

Kate. 

Spare  me  thy  spare  ribs,  I  pray  thee  ;  but  now  I 
ask  you  all,  did  none  of  you  love  young  Walter  Lea  ? 

First  Retainer. 

Ay,  if  he  had  not  gone  to  fight  the  king's  battles, 
we  should  have  better  battels  at  home. 

Kate. 
Right  as  an  Oxford  scholar,  but  the  boy  was  taken 
prisoner  by  the  Moors. 


272  THE  FORESTERS  act  I 

First  Retainer. 

Ay. 

Kate. 

And  Sir  Richard  was  told  he  might  be  ransomed 
for  two  thousand  marks  in  gold. 

First  Retainer. 
Ay. 

Kate. 

Then  he  borrowed  the  monies  from  the  Abbot  of 
York,  the  Sheriffs  brother.  And  if  they  be  not  paid 
back  at  the  end  of  the  year,  the  land  goes  to  the 
Abbot. 

First  Retainer. 

No  news  of  young  Walter? 

Kate. 

None,  nor  of  the  gold,  nor  the  man  who  took  out 
the  gold  :  but  now  ye  know  why  we  live  so  stintedly, 
and  why  ye  have  so  few  grains  to  peck  at.  Sir 
Richard  must  scrape  and  scrape  till  he  get  to  the  land 
again.  Come,  come,  why  do  ye  loiter  here?  Carry 
fresh  rushes  into  the  dining-hall,  for  those  that  are  there 
they  be  so  greasy  and  smell  so  vilely  that  my  Lady 
Marian  holds  her  nose  when  she  steps  across  it. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  273 

Fourth  Retainer. 

Why  there,  now  !  that  very  word  '  greasy '  hath  a 
kind  of  unction  in  it,  a  smack  of  reUsh  about  it.  The 
rats  have  gnawed  'em  already.  I  pray  Heaven  we 
may  not  have  to  take  to  the  rushes.  [^Exeunt. 

Kate. 
Poor  fellows  ! 

The  lady  gave  her  hand  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  her  hand  to  the  man. 

Enter  Little  John. 

Little  John. 

My  master,  Robin  the  Earl,  is  always  a-telling  us 
that  every  man,  for  the  sake  of  the  great  blessed 
Mother  in  heaven,  and  for  the  love  of  his  own  little 
mother  on  earth,  should  handle  all  womankind  gently, 
and  hold  them  in  all  honour,  and  speak  small  to  'em, 
and  not  scare  'em,  but  go  about  to  come  at  their 
love  with  all  manner  of  homages,  and  observances, 
and  circumbendibuses. 

Kate. 
The  lady  gave  a  rose  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  a  rose  to  the  tfian. 

VOL.   VI.  T 


274  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

Little  John  {seeing  her) . 
O  the  sacred   little  thing  !     What  a  shape  !  what 
lovely  arms  !     A  rose  to  the  man  !     Ay,  the  man  had 
given  her  a  rose  and  she  gave  him  another. 

Kate. 
Shall  I  keep  one  little  rose  for  Little  John  ?     No. 

Little  John. 
There,  there  !     You  see  I  was  right.     She  hath  a 
tenderness  toward  me,  but  is  too  shy  to  show  it.     It 
is  in  her,  in  the  woman,  and  the  man  must  bring  it 
out  of  her. 

ELate. 
She  gave  a  weeping  kiss  to  the  Earl, 
The  maid  a  kiss  to  the  man. 

Little  John. 
Did  she  ?  But  there  I  am  sure  the  ballad  is  at  fault. 
It  should  have  told  us  how  the  man  first  kissed  the 
maid.  She  doesn't  see  me.  Shall  I  be  bold  ?  shall  I 
touch  her?  shall  I  give  her  the  first  kiss?  O  sweet 
Kate,  my  first  love,  the  first  kiss,  the  first  kiss  ! 

Kate  {turns  and  kisses  him). 
Why  lookest  thou  so  amazed  ? 


SCENKI  THE  FORESTERS  275 

Little  John. 

I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  came  to  give  thee  the  first 
kiss,  and  thou  hast  given  it  me. 

Kate. 

But  if  a  man  and  a  maid  care  for  one  another, 
does  it  matter  so  much  if  the  maid  give  the  first 
kiss? 

Little  John. 

I  cannot  tell,  but  I  had  sooner  have  given  thee 
the  first  kiss.  I  was  dreaming  of  it  all  the  way 
hither. 

Kate. 

Dream  of  it,  then,  all  the  way  back,  for  now  I  will 
have  none  of  it. 

Little  John. 

Nay,  now  thou  hast  given  me  the  man's  kiss,  let 
me  give  thee  the  maid's, 

Kate. 

If  thou  draw  one  inch  nearer,  I  will  give  thee  a 
buffet  on  the  face. 

Little  John. 

Wilt  thou  not  give  me  rather  the  little  rose  for 
Little  John  ? 


276  THE  FORESTERS  ACT  i 

Kate  {throws  it  down  and  tramples  on  it^ . 
There  !  [Kate  seeing  Marian  exit  hurriedly. 

Enter  Marian  {singing) . 

Love  flew  in  at  the  window, 

As  Wealth  walk'd  in  at  the  door. 
*You  have  come  for  you  saw  Wealth  coming,'  said  I. 
But  he  fluttered  his  wings  with  a  sweet  little  cry, 

ril  cleave  to  you  rich  or  poor. 

Wealth  dropt  out  of  the  window. 

Poverty  crept  thro'  the  door. 
'  Well  now  you  would  fain  follow   Wealth,'  said  I, 
But  he  flutter' d  his  wings  as  he  gave  7ne  the  lie, 
I  cling  to  you  all  the  more. 

Little  John. 

Thanks,  my  lady— inasmuch  as  I  am  a  true  believer 
in  true  love  myself,  and  your  Ladyship  hath  sung  the 
old  proverb  out  of  fashion. 

Marian. 

Ay  but  thou  hast  ruffled  my  woman,  Little  John. 
She  hath  the  fire  in  her  face  and  the  dew  in  her  eyes. 
I  believed  thee  to  be  too  solemn  and  formal  to  be  a 
ruffler.    Out  upon  thee  ! 


SCENE  I  THE   FORESTERS  2-j'j 

Little  John. 

I  am  no  ruffler,  my  lady ;  but  I  pray  yon,  my  lady, 
if  a  man  and  a  maid  love  one  another,  may  the  maid 
give  the  first  kiss  ? 

Marian. 
It  will  be  all  the  more  gracious  of  her  if  she  do. 

Little  John. 

I  cannot  tell.  Manners  be  so  corrupt,  and  these 
are  the  days  of  Prince  John.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Richard  Lea  {reading  a  bond). 

Sir  Richard. 
Marian  ! 

Marlan. 
Father  ! 

Sir  Richard. 
Who  parted  from  thee  even  now? 

Marian. 

That  strange  starched  stiff  creature,  Little  John,  the 
Earl's  man.  He  would  grapple  with  a  hon  like  the 
King,  and  is  flustered  by  a  girl's  kiss. 


278  THE  FORESTERS  acti 

Sir  Richard. 

There  never  was  an  Earl  so  true  a  friend  of  the 
people  -as  Lord  Robin  of  Huntingdon. 

Marian. 
A  gallant  Earl.     I  love  him  as  I  hate  John. 

Sir  Richard. 

I  fear  me  he  hath  wasted  his  revenues  in  the  service 
of  our  good  king  Richard  against  the  party  of  John, 
as  I  have  done,  as  I  have  done  :  and  where  is  Richard  ? 

Marian. 
Cleave  to  him,  father  !  he  will  come  home  at  last. 

Sir  Richard. 

I  trust  he  will,  but  if  he  do  not  I  and  thou  are  but 
beggars. 

Marian. 

We  \vill  be  beggar'd  then  and  be  true  to  the  King. 

Sir  Richard. 

Thou  speakest  like  a  fool  or  a  woman.  Canst  thou 
endure  to  be  a  beggar  whose  whole  life  hath  been 


SCENE  I  .        THE  FORESTERS  279 

folded  like  a  blossom  in  the  sheath,  like  a  careless 
sleeper  in  the  down  ;  who  never  hast  felt  a  want,  to 
whom  all  things,  up  to  this  present,  have  come  as  freely 
as  heaven's  air  and  mother's  milk? 

Marian. 

Tut,  father  !  I  am  none  of  your  delicate  Norman 
maidens  who  can  only  broider  and  mayhap  ride 
a-hawking  with  the  help  of  the  men.  I  can  bake  and 
I  can  brew,  and  by  all  the  saints  I  can  shoot  almost 
as  closely  with  the  bow  as  the  great  Earl  himself.  I 
have  played  at  the  foils  too  with  Kate  :  but  is  not 
to-day  his  birthday? 

Sir  Richard. 

Dost  thou  love  him  indeed,  that  thou  keepest  a 
record  of  his  birthdays?  Thou  knowest  that  the 
Sheriff  of  Nottingham  loves  thee. 

Marian. 

The  Sheriff  dare  to  love  me?  me  who  worship 
Robin  the  great  Earl  of  Huntingdon?  I  love  him 
as  a  damsel  of  his  day  might  have  loved  Harold  the 
Saxon,  or  Hereward  the  Wake.  They  both  fought 
against  the  tyranny  of  the  kings,  the  Normans.  But 
then  your  Sheriff,  your  little  man,  if  he  dare  to  fight 


28o  THE  FORESTERS      ■  act  i 

at  all,  would  fight  for  his  rents,  his  leases,  his  houses, 
his  monies,  his  oxen,  his  dinners,  himself.  Now  your 
great  man,  your  Robin,  all  England's  Robin,  fights 
not  for  himself  but  for  the  people  of  England.  This 
John — this  Norman  tyranny — the  stream  is  bearing 
us  all  down,  and  our  little  Sheriff  will  ever  swim  with 
the  stream  !  but  our  great  man,  our  Robin,  against 
it.  And  how  often  in  old  histories  have  the  great 
men  striven  against  the  stream,  and  how  often  in  the 
long  sweep  of  years  to  come  must  the  great  man  strive 
against  it  again  to  save  his  country,  and  the  liberties 
of  his  people  !  God  bless  our  well-beloved  Robin, 
Earl  of  Huntingdon. 

Sir  Richard. 
Ay,  ay.     He  wore  thy  colours  once  at  a  tourney. 
I  am  old  and  forget     Was  Prince  John  there  ? 

Marian. 
The  Sheriff  of  Nottingham  was  there — not  John. 

Sir  Richard. 
Beware   of  John  and    the  Sheriff  of  Nottingham. 
They  hunt  in  couples,  and  when  they  look  at  a  maid 
they  blast  her. 

Marian. 

Then  the  maid  is  not  high-hearted  enough. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  281 

Sir  Richard. 

There — there — be  not  a  fool  again.  Their  aim  is 
ever  at  that  which  flies  highest — but  O  girl,  girl,  I  am 
almost  in  despair.  Those  two  thousand  marks  lent 
me  by  the  Abbot  for  the  ransom  of  my  son  Walter — 
I  beheved  this  Abbot  of  the  party  of  King  Richard, 
and  he  hath  sold  himself  to  that  beast  John — they 
must  be  paid  in  a  year  and  a  month,  or  I  lose  the 
land.  There  is  one  that  should  be  grateful  to  me 
overseas,  a  Count  in  Brittany — he  lives  near  Quimper. 
I  saved  his  life  once  in  battle.  He  has  monies.  I 
will  go  to  him.  I  saved  him.  I  will  try  him.  I  am 
all  but  sure  of  him.     I  will  go  to  him. 

Marian. 
And  I  will  follow  thee,  and  God  help  us  both. 

Sir  Richard. 

Child,  thou  shouldst  marry  one  who  will  pay  the 
mortgage.  This  Robin,  this  Earl  of  Huntingdon — he 
is  a  friend  of  Richard — I  know  not,  but  he  may  save 
the  land,  he  may  save  the  land. 

Marian  {showing  a  cross  hung  round  her  neck). 
Father,  you  see  this  cross  ? 


282  THE   FORESTERS  act  i 

Sir  Richard. 

Ay  the  King,  thy  godfather,  gave  it  thee  when  a 
baby. 

Marian. 

And  he  said  that  whenever  I  married  he  would  give 
me  away,  and  on  this  cross  I  have  sworn  {kisses  it\ 
that  till  I  myself  pass  away,  there  is  no  other  man  that 
shall  give  me  away. 

Sir  Richard. 

Lo  there — thou  art  fool  again — I  am  all  as  loyal  as 
thyself,  but  what  a  vow  !  what  a  vow  ! 

Re-enter  Little  John. 

Little  John. 
My  Lady  Marian,  your  woman  so  flustered  me  that 
I  forgot  my  message  from  the  Earl.  To-day  he  hath 
accomplished  his  thirtieth  birthday,  and  he  prays  your 
ladyship  and  your  ladyship's  father  to  be  present  at 
his  banquet  to-night. 

Marian. 
Say,  we  will  come. 

Little  John. 

And  I  pray  you,  my  lady,  to  stand  between  me  and 
your  woman,  Kate. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  283 

Marian. 
I  will  speak  with  her. 

Little  John. 

I  thank  you,  my  lady,  and  I  wish  you  and  your 
ladyship's  father  a  most  exceedingly  good  morning. 

{^Exit. 

Sir  Richard. 

Thou  hast  answered  for  me,  but  I  know  not  if  I 
will  let  thee  go. 

Marian. 
I  mean  to  go. 

Sir  Richard. 

Not  if  I  barred  thee  up  in  thy  chamber,  like  a  bird 
in  a  cage. 

Marian. 

Then   I   would    drop   from   the   casement,   like   a 
spider. 

Sir  Richard. 

But  I  would  hoist  the  drawbridge,  like  thy  master. 

Marian. 
And  I  would  swim  the  moat,  Hke  an  otter. 


284  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

Sir  Richard. 

But  I  would  set  my  men-at-arms  to  oppose  thee, 
like  the  Lord  of  the  Castle. 

Marian. 

And  I  would  break  through  them  all,  like  the  King 
of  England. 

Sir  Richard. 

Well,  thou  shalt  go,  but  O  the  land  !  the  land  ! 
my  great  great  great  grandfather,  my  great  great 
grandfather,  my  great  grandfather,  my  grandfather 
and  my  own  father — they  were  born  and  bred  on  it 
— it  was  their  mother — they  have  trodden  it  for  half 
a  thousand  years,  and  whenever  I  set  my  own  foot  on 
it  I  say  to  it,  Thou  art  mine,  and  it  answers,  I  am 
thine  to  the  very  heart  of  the  earth — but  now  I  have 
lost  my  gold,  I  have  lost  my  son,  and  I  shall  lose  my 
land  also.  Down  to  the  devil  with  this  bond  that 
beggars  me  !  [Flings  down  the  bond. 

Marian. 

Take  it  again,  dear  father,  be  not  wroth  at  the 
dumb  parchment.  Sufficient  for  the  day,  dear  father  ! 
let  us  be  merry  to-night  at  the  banquet. 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS 


285 


Scene  II. — A  banqueting-hall  in  the  house  of  Robin 
Hood  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon.  Doors  open  into  a 
banqueti7ig-hall  where  he  is  at  feast  with  his  friends. 

DRINKING   SONG. 

Long  live  Richard, 

Robin  and  Richard ! 
Long  live  Richard  ! 

Down  with  Johti ! 
Drink  to  the  Lion-heart 

Every  one  ! 
Pledge  the  Flantagenet, 

Him  that  is  gone. 
Who  knoivs  whither? 

God^s  good  Angel 
Help  him  back  hither, 

And  down  with  John  ! 
Long  live  Robin, 

Robin  and  Richard / 
Long  live  Robin, 

And  down  with  John  ! 

Enter  Prince  John  disguised  as  a  monk  and  the 
Sheriff  of  Nottingham,  Cries  of  'Dotvn  with 
John,'  'Lotig  live  King  Richard,'  '■Doivn  with 
John.' 


286  THE  FORESTERS  acti 

Prinxe  John. 

Down  with  John  !  ha.     Shall  I  be  known  ?  is  my 
disguise  perfect? 

Sheriff. 
Perfect — who   should   know  you   for  Prince  John, 
so  that  you  keep  the  cowl  down  and  speak  not? 

\Shouts  from  the  banquet-room. 

Prince  John. 

Thou  and  I  will  still  these  revelries  presently. 

\_Shouts,  '  Long  live  King  Richard ! ' 

I  come  here  to  see  this  daughter  of  Sir  Richard  of 
the  Lea  and  if  her  beauties  answer  their  report.  If 
so — 

Sheriff. 

If  so —  \_Shouts,  '  Down  with  John  ! ' 


Prince  John. 


You  hear 


Sheriff. 
Yes,  my  lord,  fear  not.     I  will  answer  for  you. 

Enter  Little  John,  Scarlet,  Much,  &'c.,  from  the 
banquet  singi?2g  a  snatch  of  the  Drinking  Song. 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  287 

Little  John. 

I  am  a  silent  man  myself,  and  all  the  more  wonder 
at  our  Earl.  What  a  wealth  of  words — O  Lord,  I 
will  live  and  die  for  King  Richard — not  so  much  for 
the  cause  as  for  the  Earl.  O  Lord,  I  am  easily  led 
by  words,  but  I  think  the  Earl  hath  right.  Scarlet, 
hath  not  the  Earl  right?  What  makes  thee  so  down 
in  the  mouth? 

Scarlet. 

I  doubt  not,  I  doubt  not,  and  though  I  be  down 
in  the  mouth,  I  will  swear  by  the  head  of  the  Earl. 

Little  John. 
Thou  Much,  miller's  son,  hath  not  the  Earl  right  ? 

Much. 

More  water  goes  by  the  mill  than  the  miller  wots  of, 
and  more  goes  to  make  right  than  I  know  of,  but  for 
all  that  I  will  swear  the  Earl  hath  right.  But  they  are 
coming  hither  for  the  dance — 

Enter  Friar  Tuck. 

be  they  not,  Friar  Tuck?    Thou  art  the  Earl's  con- 
fessor and  shouldst  know. 


288  THE  FORESTERS  ACT  1 

Tuck. 

Ay,  ay,  and  but  that  I  am  a  man  of  weight,  and  the 
weight  of  the  church  to  boot  on  my  shoulders,  I  would 
dance  too.     Fa,  la,  la,  fa,  la,  la.  \_Capering. 

Much. 

But  doth  not  the  weight  of  the  flesh  at  odd  times 
overbalance  the  weight  of  the  church,  ha  friar  ? 

Tuck. 

Homo  sum.  I  love  my  dinner — but  I  can  fast,  I 
can  fast ;  and  as  to  other  frailties  of  the  flesh — out 
upon  thee  !  Homo  sum,  sed  virgo  sum,  I  am  a  virgin, 
my  masters,  I  am  a  virgin. 

Much. 

And  a  virgin,  my  masters,  three  yards  about  the 
waist  is  like  to  remain  a  virgin,  for  who  could  embrace 
such  an  armful  of  joy? 

Tuck. 

Knave,  there  is  a  lot  of  wild  fellows  in  Sherwood 
Forest  who  hold  by  King  Richard.  If  ever  I  meet 
thee  there,  I  will  break  thy  sconce  with  my  quarter- 
staff". 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  289 

Enter  from  the  banqueting- hall  Sir  Richard  Lea, 
Robin  Hood,  ^c. 

RoBEsr. 
My  guests  and  friends,  Sir  Richard,  all  of  you 
Who  deign  to  honour  this  my  thirtieth  year, 
And  some  of  you  were  prophets  that  I  might  be. 
Now  that  the  sun  our  King  is  gone,  the  light 
Of  these  dark  hours ;  but  this  new  moon,  I  fear, 
Is  darkness.     Nay,  this  may  be  the  last  time 
When  I  shall  hold  my  birthday  in  this  hall : 
I  may  be  outlaw'd,  I  have  heard  a  rumour. 

All. 

God  forbid ! 

Robin. 

Nay,  but  we  have  no  news  of  Richard  yet. 
And  ye  did  wrong  in  crying  '  Down  with  John ;  * 
For  be  he  dead,  then  John  may  be  our  King. 

All. 
God  forbid  ! 

Robin. 
Ay  God  forbid, 
But  if  it  be  so  we  must  bear  with  John. 

VOL.   VI.  U 


290  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

The  man  is  able  enough — no  lack  of  wit, 

And  apt  at  arms  and  shrewd  in  policy. 

Courteous  enough  too  when  he  wills  j  and  yet 

I  hate  him  for  his  want  of  chivalry. 

He  that  can  pluck  the  flower  of  maidenhood 

From  off  the  stalk  and  trample  it  in  the  mire, 

And  boast  that  he  hath  trampled  it.     I  hate  him, 

I  hate  the  man.     I  may  not  hate  the  King 

For  aught  I  know, 

So  that  our  Barons  bring  his  baseness  under. 

I  think  they  will  be  mightier  than  the  king. 

\_Dance  fnusic. 

(Marian  eiiters  with  other  damsels.^ 

Robin. 

The  high  Heaven  guard  thee  from  his  wantonness 
Who  art  the  fairest  flower  of  maidenhood 
That  ever  blossom'd  on  this  English  isle. 

Maria>\ 

Cloud  not  thy  birthday  with  one  fear  for  me. 
My  lord,  myself  and  my  good  father  pray 
Thy  thirtieth  summer  may  be  thirty-fold 
As  happy  as  any  of  those  that  went  before. 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  291 

Robin. 

My  Lady  Marian  you  can  make  it  so 

If  you  will  deign  to  tread  a  measure  with  me. 

Marian. 

Full  willingly,  my  lord. 

\_They  dance, 

Robin  {after  dance). 
My  Lady,  will  you  answer  me  a  question? 

Marian. 
Any  that  you  may  ask. 

Robin. 

A  question  that  every  true  man  asks  of  a  woman 
once  in  his  life. 

Marian. 

I  will  not  answer  it,  my  lord,  till  King  Richard 
come  home  again. 

Prince  John  {to  Sheriff). 

How  she  looks  up  at  him,  how  she  holds  her  face  ! 
Now  if  she  kiss  him,  I  will  have  his  head. 


292 


THE  FORESTERS  act  i 


Sheriff. 

Peace,  my  lord;   the  Earl  and  Sir  Richard  come 
this  way. 

Robin. 

Must  you  have  these  monies  before  the  year  and 
the  month  end? 

Sir  Richard. 

Or  I  forfeit  my  land  to  the  Abbot.     I  must  pass 
overseas  to  one  that  I  trust  will  help  me. 

Robin. 
Leaving  your  fair  Marian  alone  here. 

Sir  Richard. 

Ay,  for  she  hath  somewhat  of  the  lioness  in  her, 
and  there  be  men-at-arms  to  guard  her. 

[Robin,  Sir  Richard,  and  Marian  pass  on. 

Prince  John  {to  Sheriff). 

Why  that  will  be  our  opportunity 

When  I  and  thou  will  rob  the  nest  of  her. 

Sheriff. 
Good  Prince,  art  thou  in  need  of  any  gold  ? 


scene  ii  the  foresters  293 

Prince  John. 
Gold?   why?   not  now. 

Sheriff. 

I  would  give  thee  any  gold 
So  that  myself  alone  might  rob  the  nest. 

Prince  John. 
Well,  well  then,  thou  shalt  rob  the  nest  alone. 

Sheriff. 
Swear  to  me  by  that  relic  on  thy  neck. 

Prince  John. 

I  swear  then  by  this  relic  on  my  neck — 
No,  no,  I  will  not  swear  by  this ;  I  keep  it 
For  holy  vows  made  to  the  blessed  Saints 
Not  pleasures,  women's  matters. 
Dost  thou  mistrust  me?    Am  I  not  thy  friend? 
Beware,  man,  lest  thou  lose  thy  faith  in  me. 
I  love  thee  much ;  and  as  I  am  thy  friend, 
I  promise  thee  to  make  this  Marian  thine. 
Go  now  and  ask  the  maid  to  dance  with  thee, 
And  learn  from  her  if  she  do  love  this  Earl. 

Sheriff  {advancing  toward  Marun  and  Robin)  . 
Pretty  mistress  ! 


294  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

Robin. 
What  art  thou,  man  ?    Sheriff  of  Nottingham  ? 

Sheriff. 

Ay,  my  lord.  I  and  my  friend,  this  monk,  were 
here  belated,  and  seeing  the  hospitable  lights  in  your 
castle,  and  knowing  the  fame  of  your  hospitality,  we 
ventured  in  uninvited. 

Robin. 

You  are  welcome,  though  I  fear  you  be  of  those 
who  hold  more  by  John  than  Richard. 

Sheriff. 

True,  for  through  John  I  had  my  sheriffship.  I  am 
John's  till  Richard  come  back  again,  and  then  I  am 
Richard's.     Pretty  mistress,  will  you  dance  ? 

\jrhey  dance. 

Robin  {talking  to  Prince  John). 

What  monk  of  what  convent  art  thou  ?  Why  wearest 
thou  thy  cowl  to  hide  thy  face  ? 

[Prince  John  shakes  his  head. 
Is  he  deaf,  or  dumb,  or  daft,  or  drunk  belike  ? 

[Prince  John  shakes  his  head. 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  295 

Why  comest  thou  like  a  death's  head  at  my  feast? 

[Prince  John  points  to  the  Sheriff, 
wJio  is  dancing  with  Marian. 
Is  he  thy  mouthpiece,  thine  interpreter? 

[Prince  John  nods. 

Sheriff  {to  Marian  as  they  pass). 
Beware  of  John  ! 

Marian. 
I  hate  him. 

Sheriff. 

Would  you  cast 

An  eye  of  favour  on  me,  I  would  pay 

My  brother  all  his  debt  and  save  the  land. 

Marian. 
I  cannot  answer  thee  till  Richard  come. 

Sheriff. 
And  when  he  comes  ? 

Marian. 
Well,  you  must  wait  till  then. 

Little  John  {dancing  with  Kate). 
Is  it  made  up  ?     Will  you  kiss  me  ? 


296  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

Kate. 
You  shall  give  me  the  first  kiss. 

Little  John. 
There  {kisses  he?-).     Now  thine. 

Kate. 

You  shall  wait  for  mine  till  Sir  Richard  has  paid  the 
Abbot.  \_They  pass  on. 

{The  Sheriff  leaves  Marian  with  her  father 
and  comes  toward  Robin. 

Robin  {to  Sheriff,  Prince  John  standing  by). 
Sheriff,  thy  friend,  this  monk,  is  but  a  statue. 

Sheriff. 
Pardon  him,  my  lord  :  he  is  a  holy  Palmer,  bounden 
by  a  vow  not  to  show  his  face,  nor  to  speak  word  to 
anyone,  till  he  join  King  Richard  in  the  Holy  Land. 

Robin. 

Going  to  the  Holy  Land  to  Richard  !     Give  me 

thy  hand  and  tell  him Why,  what  a  cold  grasp 

is  thine — as  if  thou  didst  repent  thy  courtesy  even  in 
the  doing  it.  That  is  no  true  man's  hand.  I  hate 
hidden  faces. 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  297 

Sheriff. 

Pardon  him  again,  I  pray  you ;  but  the  twihght  of 
the  coming  day  already  ghmmers  in  the  east.  We 
thank  you,  and  farewell. 

Robin. 

Farewell,  farewell.     I  hate  hidden  faces. 

\_Exeunt  Prince  John  and  Sheriff. 

Sir  Richard  {coming  forward  with  Maid  Marian), 

How  close  the  Sheriff  peer'd  into  thine  eyes  ! 
What  did  he  say  to  thee  ? 

Marian. 

Bade  me  beware 

Of  John  :  what  maid  but  would  beware  of  John? 


What  else  ? 


Sir  Richard. 

Marian. 
I  care  not  what  he  said. 

Sir  Richard. 

What  else  ? 
Marian. 

That  if  I  cast  an  eye  of  favour  on  him, 
Himself  would  pay  this  mortgage  to  his  brother, 
And  save  the  land. 


298  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

Sir  Richard. 
Did  he  say  so,  the  Sheriff  ? 

Robin. 
I  fear  this  Abbot  is  a  heart  of  flint, 
Hard  as  the  stones  of  his  abbey. 

0  good  Sir  Richard, 

1  am  sorry  my  exchequer  runs  so  low 
I  cannot  help  you  in  this  exigency ; 

For  though  my  men  an-l  I  flash  out  at  times 
Of  festival  like  burnish'd  summer-flies, 
We  make  but  one  hour's  buzz,  are  only  like 
The  rainbow  of  a  momentary  sun. 
I  am  mortgaged  as  thyself. 

Sir  Ricr'Vrd. 

Ay  !    I   warrant   thee— thou   canst  not   be   sorrier 
than  I  am.     Come  away,  daughter. 

Robin. 
Farewell,  Sir  Richard  ;  farewell,  sweet  Marian. 

Marian. 
Till  better  times. 

Robin. 

But  if  the  better  times  should  never  come  ? 


SCENE  11 


THE  FORESTERS  299 


Marian. 
Then  I  shall  be  no  worse. 

Robin. 
And  if  the  worst  time  come  ? 

Marian. 
Why  then  I  will  be  better  than  the  time. 

Robin. 
This  ring  my  mother  gave  me  :  it  was  her  own 
Betrothal  ring.     She  pray'd  me  when  I  loved 
A  maid  with  all  my  heart  to  pass  it  down 
A  finger  of  that  hand  which  should  be  mine 
Thereafter.     Will  you  have  it  ?     Will  you  wear  it  ? 

Marian. 
Ay,  noble  Earl,  and  never  part  with  it. 

Sir  Richard  Lea  (coming  up). 
Not  till  she  clean  forget  thee,  noble  Earl. 

Marian. 

Forget  him — never — by  this  Holy  Cross 

Which  good  King  Richard  gave  me  when  a  child- 

Never  1 


300  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 

Not  while  the  swallow  skims  along  the  ground, 
And  while  the  lark  flies  up  and  touches  heaven  ! 
Not  while  the  smoke  floats  from  the  cottage  roof, 
And  the  white  cloud  is  roU'd  along  the  sky  ! 
Not  while  the  rivulet  babbles  by  the  door. 
And  the  great  breaker  beats  upon  the  beach  ! 
Never — 

Till  Nature,  high  and  low,  and  great  and  small 
Forgets  herself,  and  all  her  loves  and  hates 
Sink  again  into  chaos. 

Sir  Richard  Lea. 

Away  !  away  ! 

\_Exeunt  to  music. 

Scene  III. — Same  as  Scene  II. 
Robin  and  his  men. 

Robin. 

All  gone  ! — my  ring — I  am  happy — should  be  happy. 
She  took  my  ring.     I  trust  she  loves  me — yet 
I  heard  this  Sheriff"  tell  her  he  would  pay 
The  mortgage  if  she  favour'd  him.     I  fear 
Not  her,  the  father's  power  upon  her. 

Friends,  {to  his  men) 
I  am  only  merry  for  an  hour  or  two 


SCENE  III  THE  FORESTERS  301 

Upon  a  birthday  :  if  this  life  of  ours 

Be  a  good  glad  thing,  why  should  we  make  us  merry 

Because  a  year  of  it  is  gone  ?  but  Hope 

Smiles  from  the  threshold  of  the  year  to  come 

Whispering  *  it  will  be  happier,'  and  old  faces 

Press  round  us,  and  warm   hands  close  with   warm 

hands, 
And  thro'  the  blood  the  wine  leaps  to  the  brain 
Like  April  sap  to  the  topmost  tree,  that  shoots 
New  buds  to  heaven,  whereon  the  throstle  rock'd 
Sings  a  new  song  to  the  new  year — and  you 
Strike  up  a  song,  my  friends,  and  then  to  bed. 

Little  John. 
What  will  you  have,  my  lord  ? 

Robin. 

*  To  sleep  !  to  sleep  1 ' 

Little  John, 

There  is  a  touch  of  sadness  in  it,  my  lord, 
But  ill  befitting  such  a  festal  day. 

Robin. 

I  have  a  touch  of  sadness  in  myself. 
Sing. 


302  THE  FORESTERS 


SONG. 


ACT  I 


To  sleep  .'  to  sleep  I     The  long  bright  day  is  done, 

And  darkness  rises  from  the  fallen  sun. 

To  sleep  !  to  sleep  I 

Whatever  thy  joys,  they  vanish  with  the  day  ; 

Whatever  thy  griefs,  in  sleep  they  fade  away. 

To  sleep  !  to  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  mournful  heart,  and  let  the  past  be  past ! 

Sleep,  happy  soul  J  all  life  will  sleep  at  last. 

To  sleep  !  to  sleep  / 

\_A  trumpet  blown  at  the  gates. 

Robin. 
Who  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  morning  thus  ? 

Little  John  {going  out  and  returning). 
It  is  a  royal  messenger,  my  lord  : 
I  trust  he  brings  us  news  of  the  King's  coming. 

Enter  a  Pursuivant  who  reads. 

O  yes,  O  yes,  O  yes  !  In  the  name  of  the  Regent. 
Thou,  Robin  Hood  Earl  of  Huntingdon  art  attainted 
and  hast  lost  thine  earldom  of  Huntingdon.  More- 
over thou  art  dispossessed  of  all  thy  lands,  goods, 
and  chattels  j    and    by   virtue   of  this   writ,  whereas 


SCENE  III  THE  FORESTERS  303 

Robin  Hood  Earl  of  Huntingdon  by  force  and  arms 
hath  trespassed  against  the  king  in  divers  manners, 
therefore  by  the  judgment  of  the  officers  of  the  said 
lord  king,  according  to  the  law  and  custom  of  the 
kingdom  of  England  Robin  Hood  Earl  of  Huntingdon 
is  outlawed  and  banished. 

Robin. 

I  have  shelter'd  some  that  broke  the  forest  laws. 
This  is  irregular  and  the  work  of  John. 

['  Irregular,  irregular  !   {tumult)  Down  with 
him,  tear  his  coat  from  his  back  ! ' 

Messenger. 
Ho  there  !  ho  there,  the  Sheriffs  men  without ! 

Robin. 

Nay,  let  them  be,  man,  let  them  be.     We  yield. 
How   should   we    cope   with   John?       The   London 

folkmote 
Has  made  him  all  but  king,  and  he  hath  seized 
On  half  the  royal  castles.     Let  him  alone  !   {to  his  men) 
A  worthy  messenger  !  how  should  he  help  it  ? 
Shall  we  too  work  injustice  ?  what,  thou  shakest ! 
Here,  here — a  cup  of  wine — drink  and  begone  ! 

[^Exit  Messenger. 


304  THE   FORESTERS  act  i 

We  will  away  in  four- and- twenty  hours, 
But  shall  we  leave  our  England  ? 

Tuck. 

Robin,  Earl — 

Robin. 
Let  be  the  Earl.     Henceforth  I  am  no  more 
Than  plain  man  to  plain  man. 

Tuck. 

Well,  then,  plain  man, 
There  be  good  fellows  there  in  merry  Sherwood 
That  hold  by  Richard,  tho'  they  kill  his  deer. 

Robin. 

In  Sherwood  Forest.     I  have  heard  of  them. 
Have  they  no  leader? 

Tuck. 
Each  man  for  his  own. 
Be  thou  their  leader  and  they  will  all  of  them 
Swarm  to  thy  voice  like  bees  to  the  brass  pan. 

ROBEN. 

They  hold  by  Richard — the  wild  wood  !  to  cast 
All  threadbare  household  habit,  mix  with  all 


SCENE  III  THE  FORESTERS  305 

The  lusty  life  of  wood  and  underwood, 
Hawk,  buzzard,  jay,  the  mavis  and  the  merle, 
The  tawny  squirrel  vaulting  thro'  the  boughs, 
The  deer,  the  highback'd  polecat,  the  wild  boar, 
The  burrowing  badger — By  St.  Nicholas 
I  have  a  sudden  passion  for  the  wild  wood — 
We  should  be  free  as  air  in  the  wild  wood — 
WTiat  say  you  ?  shall  we  go  ?     Your  hands,  your  hands  ! 

[  Gives  his  hand  to  each. 
You,  Scarlet,  you  are  always  moody  here. 

Scarlet. 
'Tis  for  no  lack  of  love  to  you,  my  lord, 
But  lack  of  happiness  in  a  blatant  wife. 
She  broke  my  head  on  Tuesday  with  a  dish. 
I  would  have  thwack'd  the  woman,  but  I  did  not. 
Because  thou  sayest  such  fine  things  of  women. 
But  I  shall  have  to  thwack  her  if  I  stay. 

Robin. 
Would  it  be  better  for  thee  in  the  wood? 

Scarlet. 
Ay,  so  she  did  not  follow  me  to  the  wood. 

Robin. 
Then,  Scarlet,  thou  at  least  wilt  go  with  me. 
Thou,  Much,  the  miller's  son,  1  knew  thy  father : 

VOL.    VI.  X 


J 


06  THE  FORESTERS  act  i 


He  was  a  manly  man,  as  thou  art,  Much, 
And  gray  before  his  time  as  thou  art,  Much. 

Much. 
It  is  the  trick  of  the  family,  my  lord. 
There  was  a  song  he  made  to  the  turning  wheel- 

ROBIN. 

'  Turn  !  turn  ! '  but  I  forget  it. 


Much, 


I  can  sing  it. 


Robin. 

Not  now,  good  Much  !     And  thou,  dear  Little  John, 

Who  hast  that  worship  for  me  which  Heaven  knows 

I  ill  deserve — you  love  me,  all  of  you, 

But  I  am  outlaw'd,  and  if  caught,  I  die. 

Your  hands  again.     All  thanks  for  all  your  service ; 

But  if  you  follow  me,  you  may  die  with  me. 

All. 

We  will  live  and  die  with  thee,  we  will  live  and  die 
with  thee. 

END   OF  ACT  I. 


ACT    II 
THE  FLIGHT  OF  MARIAN 


ACT  ir 

Scene  I. — A  broad  fores  f  glade,  7voodman's  hut  at  one 
side  with  half-door,  Foresters  are  looking  to  their 
bows  and  arrows^  or  polishing  their  swords. 

Foresters  sing  {as  they  disperse  to  their  work) . 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  (f  day  be  ; 
There  a?-e  no  hearts  like  English  hearts 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Wliere'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  a7-e  no  men  like  Englishnen 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

309 


3IO  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

(Full  chorus.)     And  these  will  strike  for  Engla7id 
And  man  and  maid  be  f/re 
To  foil  and  spoil  the  tyrant 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

There  is  no  land  like  Ejigland 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

» 

There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives 

So  fair  atid  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

(Full  chorus.)     And  these  shall  wed  with  freemen, 
And  all  their  sons  be  free. 
To  sing  the  songs  of  England 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 


Robin  {alone). 

My  lonely  hour  ! 

The  king  of  day  hath  stept  from  off  his  throne, 
Flung  by  the  golden  mantle  of  the  cloud, 
And  sets,  a  naked  fire.     The  King  of  England 
Perchance  this  day  may  sink  as  gloriously. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  311 

Red  with  his  own  and  enemy's  blood — but  no  ! 

We  hear  he  is  in  prison.     It  is  my  birthday. 

I  have  reign'd  one  year  in  the  wild  wood.    My  mother, 

For  whose  sake,  and  the  blessed  Queen  of  Heaven, 

I  reverence  all  women,  bad  me,  dying, 

Whene'er  this  day  should  come  about,  to  carve 

One  lone  hour  from  it,  so  to  meditate 

Upon  my  greater  nearness  to  the  birthday 

Of  the  after-life,  when  all  the  sheeted  dead 

Are  shaken  from  their  stillness  in  the  grave 

By  the  last  trumpet. 

Am  I  worse  or  better? 
I  am  outlaw'd.     I  am  none  the  worse  for  that. 
I  held  for  Richard,  and  I  hated  John. 
I  am  a  thief,  ay,  and  a  king  of  thieves. 
Ay  !  but  we  rob  the  robber,  wrong  the  wronger, 
And  what  we  wring  from  them  we  give  the  poor. 
I  am  none  the  worse  for  that,  and  all  the  better 
For  this  free  forest-life,  for  while  I  sat 
Among  my  thralls  in  my  baronial  hall 
The  groining  hid  the  heavens ;  but  since  I  breathed, 
A  houseless  head  beneath  the  sun  and  stars, 
The  soul  of  the  woods  hath  stricken  thro'  my  blood, 
The  love  of  freedom,  the  desire  of  God, 
The  hope  of  larger  life  hereafter,  more 
Tenfold  than  under  roof.  \_Horn  blowri. 

True,  were  I  taken 


312  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

They  would  prick  out  my  sight.     A  price  is  set 
On  this  poor  head  ;  but  I  beUeve  there  lives 
No  man  who  truly  loves  and  truly  rules 
His  following,  but  can  keep  his  followers  true. 
I  am  one  with  mine.     Traitors  are  rarely  bred 
Save  under  traitor  kings.     Our  vice-king  John, 
True  king  of  vice — true  play  on  words — our  John 
By  his  Norman  arrogance  and  dissoluteness, 
Hath  made  7ne  king  of  all  the  discontent 
Of  England  up  thro'  all  the  forest  land 
North  to  the  Tyne  :  being  outlaw'd  in  a  land 
Where  law  Hes  dead,  we  make  ourselves  the  law. 
Why  break  you  thus  upon  my  lonely  hour  ? 

Enter  Little  John  and  Kate. 

Little  John. 
I  found  this  white  doe  wandering  thro'  the  wood. 
Not  thine,  but  mine.     I  have  shot  her  thro'  the  heart. 

Kate. 
He  lies,  my  lord.     I  have  shot  him  thro'  the  heart. 

Robin. 
My  God,  thou  art  the  very  woman  who  waits 
On  my  dear  Marian.     Tell  me,  tell  me  of  her. 
Thou  comest  a  very  angel  out  of  heaven. 
Where  is  she  ?  and  how  fares  she  ? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  31  ■? 

Kate. 

O  my  good  lord, 

I  am  but  an  angel  by  reflected  light. 

Your  heaven  is  vacant  of  your  angel.     John — 

Shame  on  him  ! — 

Stole  on  her,  she  was  walking  in  the  garden, 

And  after  some  slight  speech  about  the  Sheriff 

He  caught  her  round  the  waist,  whereon  she  struck  him, 

And  fled  into  the  castle.     She  and  Sir  Richard 

Have  past  away,  I  know  not  where  ;  and  I 

Was  left  alone,  and  knowing  as  I  did 

That  I  had  shot  him  thro'  the  heart,  I  came 

To  eat  him  up  and  make  an  end  of  him. 

Little  John. 
In  kisses? 

Kate. 
You,  how  dare  you  mention  kisses? 
But  I  am  weary  pacing  thro'  the  wood. 
Show  me  some  cave  or  cabin  where  I  may  rest. 

Robin. 

Go  with  him.     I  will  talk  with  thee  anon, 

\_Exeunt  Little  John  and  Kate. 
She  struck  him,  my  brave  Marian,  struck  the  Prince, 
The  serpent  that  had  crept  into  the  garden 


314  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

And  coil'd  himself  about  her  sacred  waist. 

I  think  I  should  have  stricken  him  to  the  death. 

He  never  will  forgive  her. 

O  the  Sheriff 
Would  pay  this  cursed  mortgage  to  his  brother 
If  Marian  would  marry  him  \  and  the  son 
Is  most  like  dead — if  so  the  land  may  come 
To  Marian,  and  they  rate  the  land  five-fold 
The  worth  of  the  mortgage,  and  who  marries  her 
Marries  the  land.     Most  honourable  Sheriff ! 
(^Passionately)  Gone,  and  it  may  be  gone  for  evermore  ! 

0  would  that  I  could  see  her  for  a  moment 
Glide  like  a  light  across  these  woodland  ways  ! 
Tho'  in  one  moment  she  should  glance  away, 

1  should  be  happier  for  it  all  the  year. 

O  would  she  moved  beside  me  like  my  shadow  ! 
O  would  she  stood  before  me  as  my  queen, 
To  make  this  Sherwood  Eden  o'er  again, 
And  these  rough  oaks  the  palms  of  Paradise  ! 

Ah  !  but  who  be  those  three  yonder  with  bows? — 
not  of  my  band — the  Sheriff,  and  by  heaven.  Prince 
John  himself  and  one  of  those  mercenaries  that  suck 
the  blood  of  England.  My  people  are  all  scattered  I 
know  not  where.  Have  they  come  for  me?  Here 
is  the  -ivitch's  hut.  The  fool-people  call  her  a  witch 
— a  good  witch  to  me  !     I  will  shelter  here. 

\_Knocks  at  the  door  of  the  hut. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  315 

Old  Woman  comes  out. 
Old  Woman   {kisses  his  hand). 

Ah  dear  Robin  !  ah  noble  captain,   friend  of  the 

poor  ! 

RoBEsr. 

I  am  chased  by  my  foes.  I  have  forgotten  my 
horn  that  calls  my  men  together.  Disguise  me — thy 
gown  and  thy  coif. 

Old  Woman. 

Come  in,  come  in ;  I  would  give  my  life  for  thee, 

for   when   the    Sheriff  had    taken  all  our   goods    for 

the  King  without   paying,  our  horse    and   our   little 

cart 

Robin. 

Quick,  good  mother,  quick  ! 

Old  Wo>lan. 
Ay,   ay,   gown,    coif,   and   petticoat,    and   the   old 
woman's  blessing  with  them  to  the  last  fringe. 

\_They  go  in. 

Enter  Prince  John,  Sheriff  of  Nottingham, 
and  Mercenary. 

Prince  John. 
Did  we  not  hear  the  two  would  pass  this  way  ? 
They  must  have  past.     Here  is  a  woodman's  hut. 


3i6  THE  FORESTERS  act  li 

Mercenary. 

Take  heed,  take  heed  !  in  Nottingham  they  say 
There  bides  a  foul  witch  somewhere  hereabout. 

Sheriff. 
Not  in  this  hut  I  take  it. 

Prince  John. 

Why  not  here  ? 

Sheriff. 
I  saw  a  man  go  in,  my  lord. 


Prince  John. 

Not  two? 

Sheriff. 
No,  my  lord,  one. 

Prince  John. 
Make  for  the  cottage  then  ! 

Interior  of  the  hut. 

Robin  disguised  as  old  woman. 

Prince  John  {without). 
Knock  again  !  knock  again  ! 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  317 

Robin  (/^  Old  Woman). 

Get    thee    into    the    closet    there,    and    make    a 
ghostly  wail  ever  and  anon  to  scare  'em. 

Old  Woman. 
I  will,  I  will,  good  Robin.  [  Goes  into  closet. 

Prince  John  {7vithoiif). 

Open,  open,  or   I  will   drive  the    door   from    the 
doorpost. 

Robin  {opens  door). 

Come  in,  come  in. 

Prince  John. 
Why  did  ye  keep  us  at  the  door  so  long? 

Robin   {curtseying) . 
I  was  afear'd  it  was  the  ghost,  your  worship. 

Prince   John. 
Ghost !    did  one  in  white  pass  ? 

Robin  {curtseying). 
No,  your  worship. 

Prince  John. 
Did  two  knights  pass? 


3i8  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Robin  (^curtseying) . 
No,  your  worship. 

Sheriff. 
I  fear  me  we  have  lost  our  labour,  then. 

Prince   John. 
Except  this  old  hag  have  been  bribed  to  lie. 

Robin. 

We  old  hags  should  be  bribed  to  speak  truth,  for, 
God  help  us,  we  lie  by  nature. 

Prince  John. 
There  was  a  man  just  now  that  enter'd  here? 

Robin. 
There  is  but  one  old  woman  in  the  hut. 

[Old  Woman  ye//s. 

Robin. 

I  crave  your  worship's  pardon.  There  is  yet  an- 
other old  woman.  She  was  murdered  here  a  hundred 
year  ago,  and  whenever  a  murder  is  to  be  done 
again  she  yells  out  i'  this  way — so  they  say,  your 
worship. 


scene  i  the  foresters  319 

Mercenary. 

Now,  if  I  hadn't  a  sprig  o'  wickentree  sewn  into 
my  dress,  I  should  run. 

Prince  John. 

Tut !  tut  !  the  scream  of  some  wild  woodland  thing. 
How  came  we  to  be  parted  from  our  men? 
We  shouted,  and  they  shouted,  as  I  thought. 
But  shout  and  echo  play'd  into  each  other 
So  hollowly  we  knew  not  which  was  which. 

Robin. 

The  wood  is  full  of  echoes,  owls,  elfs,  ouphes,  oafs, 
ghosts  o'  the  mist,  wills-o'-the-wisp ;  only  they  that 
be  bred  in  it  can  find  their  way  a-nights  in  it. 

Prince   John. 

I  am  footsore  and  famish'd  therewithal. 

Is  there  aught  there?  {^Pointing  to  cupboard. 

Robin. 

Naught  for  the  likes  o'  you. 

Prince  John. 
Speak  straight  out,  crookback. 


320  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Robin. 
Sour  milk  and  black  bread. 

Prince  John. 

Well,  set  them  forth.     I  could  eat  anything. 

\^He  sets  out  a  table  with  black  bread. 
This  is  mere    marble.     Old   hag,  how  should   thy 
one  tooth  drill  thro'  this  ? 

Robin. 

Nay,  by  St.  Gemini,  I  ha'  two ;  and  since  the 
Sheriff  left  me  naught  but  an  empty  belly,  they  can 
meet  upon  anything  thro'  a  millstone.  You  gentles 
that  live  upo'  manchet-bread  and  marchpane,  what 
should  you  know  o'  the  food  o'  the  poor?  Look  you 
here,  before  you  can  eat  it  you  must  hack  it  with  a 
hatchet,  break  it  all  to  pieces,  as  you  break  the  poor, 
as  you  would  hack  at  Robin  Hood  if  you  could  light 
upon  him  {hacks  it  and  flings  two  pieces^.  There's  for 
you,  and  there's  for  you — and  the  old  woman's 
welcome. 

Prince  John. 

The  old  wretch  is  mad,  and  her  bread  is  beyond 
me  :  and  the  milk — faugh  !  Hast  thou  anything  to 
sweeten  this? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  321 

Robin. 
Here's  a  pot  o'  wild  honey  from  an  old  oak,  saving 
your  sweet  reverences. 

Sheriff. 
Thou  hast  a  cow  then,  hast  thou  ? 

Robin. 
Ay,  for  when  the  Sheriff  took  my  little  horse  for 
the  King  without  paying  for  it 

Sheriff. 
How  hadst  thou  then  the  means  to  buy  a  cow? 

Robin. 
Eh,  I  would  ha'  given  my  whole  body  to  the  King 
had  he  asked  for  it,  like  the  woman  at  Acre  when  the 
Turk  shot  her  as  she  was  helping  to  build  the  mound 
against  the  city.  I  ha'  served  the  King  living,  says 
she,  and  let  me  serve  him  dead,  says  she  ;  let  me  go 
to  make  the  mound  :  bury  me  in  the  mound,  says  the 
woman. 

Sheriff. 
Ay,  but  the  cow  ? 

Robin. 

She  was  given  me. 
VOL.  VI.  y 


322  THE  FORESTERS  actii 

Sheriff. 
By  whom  ? 

Robin. 
By  a  thief. 

Sheriff. 
Who,  woman,  who? 

Robin  {sings). 
He  was  a  forester  good ; 
He  was  the  cock  o'  the  walk; 
He  was  the  king  o^  the  wood. 

Your  worship  may  find  another  rhyme  if  you  care 
to  drag  your  brains  for  such  a  minnow. 

Sheriff. 
That  cow  was  mine.     I  have  lost  a  cow  from  my 
meadow.     Robin  Hood  was  it  ?     I  thought  as  much. 
He  ^vill  come  to  the  gibbet  at  last. 

[Old  Woman  yells. 
Mercenary. 

O   sweet   sir,    talk   not    of  cows.     You  anger   the 
spirit. 

Prince  John. 
Anger  the  scritch-owl. 

Mercenary. 
But,  my  lord,  the  scritch-owl  bodes  death,  my  lord. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  323 

Robin. 
I  beseech  you  all  to  speak  lower.     Robin  may  be 
hard  by  wi'  three-score  of  his  men.     He  often  looks 
in  here  by  the  moonshine.     Beware  of  Robin. 

[Old  Woman  j'^/A. 

Mercenary. 
Ah,  do  you  hear?     There  may  be  murder  done. 

Sheriff. 
Have  you  not  finished,  my  lord? 

Robin. 

Thou  hast  crost  him  in  love,  and  I  have  heard 
him  swear  he  will  be  even  wi'  thee. 

[Old  Woman  yells. 

Mercenary. 

Now  is  my  heart  so  down  in  my  heels  that  if  I 
stay,  I  can't  run. 

Sheriff. 
Shall  we  not  go  ? 

Robin. 

And,  old  hag  tho'  I  be,  I  can  spell  the  hand. 
Give  me  thine.  Ay,  ay,  the  line  o'  life  is  marked 
enow;  but  look,  there  is  a  cross  line  o'  sudden  death. 


324  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

I  pray  thee  go,  go,  for  tho'  thou  wouldst  bar  me  fro' 
the  milk  o'  my  cow,  I  wouldn't  have  thy  blood  on 
my  hearth. 

Prince  John. 
Why  do  you  listen,  man,  to  the  old  fool  ? 

Sheriff. 

I  will  give  thee  a  silver  penny  if  thou  wilt  show  us 
the  way  back  to  Nottingham. 

Robin  {with  a  very  low  cvrtsey). 
All  the  sweet  saints  bless  your  worship  for  your 
alms  to  the  old  woman  !  but  make  haste  then,  and  be 
silent  in  the  wood.     Follow  me. 

\Takes  his  bow. 

(They  come  out  of  the  hut  and  close  the  door  carefully.) 

Outside  hut. 

Robin. 
Softly  !  softly  !  there  may  be  a  thief  in  every  bush. 

Prince  John. 

How  should  this  old  lamester  guide   us?    Where 
is  thy  goodman? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS 


32s 


Robin. 
The  saints  were  so  kind   to  both  on   us    that   he 
was  dead  before  he  was  born. 

Prince  John. 
Half-witted    and   a  witch   to   boot !      Mislead   us, 
and  I  will  have  thy  life  !   and  what  doest  thou  with 
that  who  art  more  bow-bent  than  the  very  bow  thou 
carriest  ? 

Robin. 
I  keep  it  to  kill  nightingales. 

Prince  John. 

Nightingales  ! 

Robin. 

You  see,  they  are  so  fond  o'  their  own  voices  that 
I  cannot  sleep  o'  nights  by  cause  on  'em. 

Prince  John. 
True  soul  of  the  Saxon  churl  for  whom  song  has 
no  charm. 

Robin. 

Then  I  roast  'em,  for  I  have  nought  else  to  live  on 
{whines).  O  your  honour,  I  pray  you  too  to  give  me 
an  alms.     (^To  Prince  John.) 


326  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Sheriff. 
This  is  no  bow  to  hit  nightingales ;  this  is  a  true 
woodman's  bow  of  the    best  yew-wood    to   slay  the 
deer.     Look,  my  lord,  there  goes  one  in  the  moon- 
light.    Shoot ! 

Prince  John  {shoots). 
Missed  !     There  goes  another.     Shoot,  Sheriff ! 

Sheriff  {shoots). 
Missed  ! 

Robin. 
And  here  comes  another.     Why,  an  old  woman  can 
shoot  closer  than  you  two. 

Prince  John. 
Shoot  then,  and  if  thou  miss  I  will  fasten  thee  to 
thine  own  doorpost  and  make  thine  old  carcase  a  target 
for  us  three. 

Robin  {raises  himself  upright,  shoots,  and  hits). 
Hit !     Did  I  not  tell  you  an  old  woman  could  shoot 
better? 

Prince  John. 

Thou  standest  straight.  Thou  speakest  manlike. 
Thou  art  no  old  woman — thou  art  disguised — thou  art 
one  of  the  thieves. 

\_Makes  a  clutch  at  the  gown,  which  comes  in  pieces 
and  falls,  showing  Robin  in  his  forester"  s  dress. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  327 

Sheriff. 
It  is  the  very  captain  of  the  thieves  ! 

Prince  John. 

We  have  him  at  last ;  we  have  him  at  advantage. 
Strike,  Sheriff!     Strike,  mercenary! 

\_They  draw  swords  and  attack  him  ; 
he  defends  hi?nself  with  his. 

Enter  Little  John. 
Little  John. 
I  have  lodged  my  pretty  Katekin  in  her  bower. 

How  now?  Clashing  of  swords — three  upon  one, 
and  that  one  our  Robin  !  Rogues,  have  you  no  man- 
hood ?  [_Dnn(.is  and  defends  Robin. 

Enter  Sir  Richard  Lea  {draivs  his  sword). 
Sir  Richard  Lea. 
Old  as  I  am,  I  will  not  brook  to  see 
Three  upon  two. 

(Maid  Marian  in  the  armour  of  a  Red-cross  Knight 
follows  half  unsheathing  her  sword  and  half  seen ^ 

Back  !  back  !  I  charge  thee,  back  ! 
Is  this  a  game  for  thee  to  play  at  ?     Away. 

(She  retires  to  the  fringe  of  the  copse ^ 

\_He  fights  on  Robin's  side.     The  other 
three  are  beaten  off  and  exeunt. 


328  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Enter  Friar  Tuck. 

Friar  Tuck. 
I  am  too  late  then  with  my  quarterstaff ! 

Robin. 
Quick,  friar,  follow  them  : 
See  whether  there  be  more  of  'em  in  the  wood. 

Frmr  Tuck. 
On  the  gallop,  on  the  gallop,  Robin,  like  a  deer 
from  a   dog,   or  a  colt  from  a  gad-fly,  or  a  stump- 
tailed  ox  in  May-time,  or  the  cow  that  jumped  over 
the  moon.  \_Exit. 

Robin. 
Nay,  nay,  but  softly,  lest  they  spy  thee,  friar ! 

\To  Sir  Richard  Lea  who  reels. 
Take  thou  mine  arm.     Who  art  thou,  gallant  knight  ? 

Sir  Richard. 

Robin,  I  am  Sir  Richard  of  the  Lea. 

Who  be  those  three  that  I  have  fought  withal? 

Robin. 
Prince  John,  the  Sheriff,  and  a  mercenary. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  329 

Sir  Richard. 

Prince  John  again.     We  are  flying  from  this  John. 
The  Sheriff — I  am  grieved  it  was  the  Sheriff; 
For,  Robin,  he  must  be  my  son-in-law. 
Thou  art  an  outlaw,  and  couldst  never  pay 
The  mortgage  on  my  land.     Thou  wilt  not  see 
My  Marian  more.     So — so — I  have  presumed 
Beyond  my  strength.     Give  me  a  draught  of  wine. 

[Marian  comes  forward. 
This  is  my  son  but  late  escaped  from  prison, 
For  whom  I  ran  into  my  debt  to  the  Abbot, 
Two  thousand  marks  in  gold.     I  have  paid  him  half. 
That  other  thousand — shall  I  ever  pay  it? 
A  draught  of  wine. 

Robin. 

Our  cellar  is  hard  by. 
Take  him,  good  Little  John,  and  give  him  wine. 

\_Exit  Sir  Richard  leaning  on  Little  John. 
A  brave  old  fellow  but  he  angers  me. 

\To  Maid  Marian  who  is  following,  her  father. 
Young  Walter,  nay,  I  pray  thee,  stay  a  moment. 

Marian. 

A  moment  for  some  matter  of  no  moment ! 

Well — !  take  and  use  your  moment,  while  you  may. 


330  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Robin. 
Thou  art  her  brother,  and  her  voice  is  thine, 
Her  face  is  thine,  and  if  thou  be  as  gentle 
Give  me  some  news  of  my  sweet  Marian. 
Where  is  she? 

Marian. 

Thy  sweet  Marian?     I  beUeve 
She  came  with  me  into  the  forest  here. 

Robin. 
She  follow'd  thee  into  the  forest  here  ? 

Marian. 
Nay — that,  my  friend,  I  am  sure  I  did  not  say. 

Robin. 
Thou  blowest  hot  and  cold.     Where  is  she  then  ? 

Marian. 
Is  she  not  here  with  thee?. 

Robin. 

Would  God  she  were  ! 

Marian. 
If  not  with  thee  I  know  not  where  she  is. 
She  may  have  lighted  on  your  fairies  here, 
And  now  be  skipping  in  their  fairy- rings. 
And  capering  hand  in  hand  with  Oberon. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  331 

Robin. 

Peace  ! 

Marian. 

Or  learning  witchcraft  of  your  woodland  witch 
And  how  to  charm  and  waste  the  hearts  of  men. 

Robin. 
That  is  not  brother-like. 

Marian  (^pointing  to  the  sky^. 

Or  there  perchance 
Up  yonder  with  the  man  i'  the  moon. 


Robin. 

Marian. 
Or  haply  fallen  a  victim  to  the  wolf. 

Robin. 
Tut !  be  there  wolves  in  Sherwood  ? 

Marian. 


No  more  ! 


The  wolf,  John 


Robin. 

Curse  him  !  but  thou  art  mocking  me.     Thou  art 
Her  brother — I  forgive  thee.     Come  be  thou 
My  brother  too.     She  loves  me. 


332  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Marian. 

Doth  she  so? 
Robin. 

Do  you  doubt  me  when  I  say  she  loves  me,  man? 

Marian. 
No,  but  my  father  will  not  lose  his  land, 
Rather  than  that  would  wed  her  with  the  Sheriff. 

Robin. 
Thou  hold'st  with  him  ? 

Marian. 

Yes,  in  some  sort  I  do. 
He  is  old  and  almost  mad  to  keep  the  land. 

Robin. 
Thou  hold'st  with  him  ? 

Marian. 
I  tell  thee,  in  some  sort. 

Robin  {angrily). 

Sort  !  sort  !  what  sort  ?  what  sort  of  man  art  thou 
For  land,  not  love  ?     Thou  wilt  inherit  the  land, 
And  so  wouldst  sell  thy  sister  to  the  Sheriff, 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  zZ'i 

O  thou  unworthy  brother  of  my  dear  Marian  ! 
And  now,  I  do  bethink  me,  thou  wast  by 
And  never  drewest  sword  to  help  the  old  man 
When  he  was  fighting. 

Marian. 
There  were  three  to  three. 

Robin. 
Thou  shouldst  have  ta'en  his  place,  and  fought  for  him. 

Marian. 
He  did  it  so  well  there  was  no  call  for  me. 

Robin. 
My  God  ! 

That  such  a  brother — she  marry  the  Sheriff! 
Come  now,  I  fain  would  have  a  bout  with  thee. 
It  is  but  pastime — nay,  I  will  not  harm  thee. 
Draw  ! 

Marian. 

Earl,  I  would  fight  with  any  man  but  thee. 

Robin. 
Ay,  ay,  because  I  have  a  name  for  prowess. 

Marian. 
It  is  not  that. 


334  THE  FORESTERS  act  II 

Robin. 
That !  I  believe  thou  fell'st  into  the  hands 
Of  these  same  Moors  thro'  nature's  baseness,  criedst 
*  I  yield  '  almost  before  the  thing  was  ask'd, 
And  thro'  thy  lack  of  manhood  hast  betray'd 
Thy  father  to  the  losing  of  his  land. 
Come,  boy  !  'tis  but  to  see  if  thou  canst  fence. 
Draw !  {^Draws. 

Marian. 
No,  Sir  Earl,  I  will  not  fight  to-day. 

Robin. 
To-morrow  then? 

Marian. 

Well,  I  will  fight  to-morrow. 

Robin. 
Give  me  thy  glove  upon  it. 

Marian  (J>uUs  off  her  glove  and  gives  it  to  him). 

There  ! 

Robin. 

O  God  ! 

What  sparkles  in  the  moonlight  on  thy  hand  ? 

\_Takes  her  hand. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  335 

In  that  great  heat  to  wed  her  to  the  Sheriff 
Thou  hast  robb'd  my  girl  of  her  betrothal  ring. 

Marian. 
No,  no ! 

Robin. 

What !  do  I  not  know  mine  own  ring  ? 

Marian. 
I  keep  it  for  her. 

Robin. 

Nay,  she  swore  it  never 
Should  leave  her  finger.     Give  it  me,  by  heaven, 
Or  I  will  force  it  from  thee. 

Marian. 

O  Robin,  Robin ! 

Robin. 

O  my  dear  Marian, 

Is  it  thou  ?  is  it  thou  ?  I  fall  before  thee,  clasp 
Thy  knees.     I  am  ashamed.     Thou  shalt  not  marry 
The  Sheriff,  but  abide  with  me  who  love  thee. 

\She  moves  from  him,  the  moonlight  falls  upon  her. 
O  look  !  before  the  shadow  of  these  dark  oaks 
Thou  seem'st  a  saintly  splendour  out  from  heaven, 


336  THE  FORESTERS  ACT  H 

Clothed  with  the  mystic  silver  of  her  moon. 
Speak  but  one  word  not  only  of  forgiveness, 
But  to  show  thou  art  mortal. 

Marian. 

Mortal  enough, 
If  love  for  thee  be  mortal.     Lovers  hold 
True  love  immortal,     Robin,  tho'  I  love  thee, 
We  cannot  come  together  in  this  world. 
Not  mortal !  after  death,  if  after  death 

Robin. 

Life,  life.     I  know  not  death.     Why  do  you  vex  me 
With  raven-croaks  of  death  and  after  death  ? 

Marian. 
And  I  and  he  are  passing  overseas  : 
He  has  a  friend  there  will  advance  the  monies, 
So  now  the  forest  lawns  are  all  as  bright 
As  ways  to  heaven,  I  pray  thee  give  us  guides 
To  lead  us  thro'  the  windings  of  the  wood. 

Robin. 
Must  it  be  so  ?     If  it  were  so,  myself 
Would  guide  you  thro'  the  forest  to  the  sea. 
But  go  not  yet,  stay  with  us,  and  when  thy  brother 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  337 

Marian. 
Robin,  I  ever  held  that  saying  false 
That  Love  is  blind,  but  thou  hast  proven  it  true. 
Why — even  your  woodland  squirrel  sees  the  nut 
Behind  the  shell,  and  thee  however  mask'd 
I  should  have  known.     But  thou — to  dream  that  he 
My  brother,  my  dear  Walter — now,  perhaps, 
Fetter'd  and  lash'd,  a  galley-slave,  or  closed 
For  ever  in  a  Moorish  tower,  or  wreckt 
And  dead  beneath  the  midland  ocean,  he 
As  gentle  as  he's  brave — that  such  as  he 
Would  wrest  from  me  the  precious  ring  I  promised 
Never  to  part  with — No,  not  he,  nor  any. 
I  would  have  battled  for  it  to  the  death.  • 

[/«  her  exciteme7it  she  draws  her  s7Vord. 
See,  thou  hast  wrong'd  my  brother  and  myself. 

Robin   {kneeling) . 
See  then,  I  kneel  once  more  to  be  forgiven. 

£nfer  Scarlet,  Much,  several  of  the  Foresters, 
rushing  on. 

Scarlet. 
Look  !  look  !  he  kneels  !  he  has  anger'd  the  foul  witch, 
Who  melts  a  waxen  image  by  the  fire, 
And  drains  the  heart  and  marrow  from  a  man. 

VOL.   VI.  z 


338  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

Much. 
Our  Robin  beaten,  pleading  for  his  life  ! 
Seize  on  the  knight !  wrench  his  sword  from  him  ! 

\They  all  rush  on  IMarian. 

Robin  {springing  up  and  waving  his  hand). 

Back! 
Back  all  of  you  !  this  is  Maid  Marian 
Flying  from  John — disguised. 

Men. 

Maid  Marian  ?  she  ? 

Scarlet. 
Captain,  we  saw  thee  cowering  to  a  knight 
And  thought  thou  wert  bewitch'd. 

Marian. 

You  dared  to  dream 
That  our  great  Earl,  the  bravest  English  heart 
Since  Hereward  the  Wake,  would  cower  to  any 
Of  mortal  build.     Weak  natures  that  impute 
Themselves  to  their  unlikes,  and  their  own  want 
Of  manhood  to  their  leader  !  he  would  break. 
Far  as  he  might,  the  power  of  John — but  you — 
What  rightful  cause  could  grow  to  such  a  heat 
As  burns  a  wrong  to  ashes,  if  the  followers 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  339 

Of  him,  who  heads  the  movement,  hel.l  him  craven? 
Robin — I  know  not,  can  I  trust  myself 
With  your  brave  band?  in  some  of  these  may  lodge 
That  baseness  which  for  fear  or  monies,  might 
Betray  me  to  the  wild  Prince. 

Robin. 

No,  love,  no ! 
Not  any  of  these,  I  swear. 

Men. 

No,  no,  we  swear. 


Scene  II. — A?iother  Glade  in  the  Forest. 
Robin  and  Marian  passing.    Enter  Forester. 

Forester. 

Knight,  your  good  father  had  his  draught  of  wine 
And  then  he  swoon'd  away.     He  had  been  hurt, 
And  bled  beneath  his  armour.     Now  he  cries 
'  The  land  !  the  land  !  '     Come  to  him. 

Marian. 

O  my  poor  father  ! 


340  THE  FORESTERS  act  n 

Robin. 
Stay  with  us  in  this  wood,  till  he  recover. 
We  know  all  balms  and  simples  of  the  field 
To  help  a  wound.     Stay  with  us  here,  sweet  love, 
Maid  Marian,  till  thou  wed  what  man  thou  wilt. 
All  here  will  prize  thee,  honour,  worship  thee, 
Crown  thee  with  flowers ;  and  he  will  soon  be  well : 
All  will  be  well. 

Marian. 

O  lead  me  to  my  father  ! 
\_As  they  are  going  out  enter  Little  John  and 
Kate  who  falls  oti  the  neck  ^Marian. 

Kate. 

No,  no,  false  knight,  thou  canst  not  hide  thyself 
From  her  who  loves  thee. 

Little  John. 

What ! 
By  all  the  devils  in  and  out  of  Hell  ! 
Wilt  thou  embrace  thy  sweetheart  'fore  my  face? 
Quick  with  thy  sword  !  the  yeoman  braves  the  knight. 
There  !    {strikes  her  with  the  flat  of  his  sword). 

Marian   {laying  about  her). 
Are  the  men  all  mad?  there  then,  and  there  ! 


SCENE  n  THE  FORESTERS  341 

Kate. 
O  hold  thy  hand  !  this  is  our  Marian. 

Little  John. 
What !  with  this  skill  of  fence  !  let  go  mine  arm. 

Robin. 
Down  with  thy  sword  !     She  is  ray  queen  and  thine, 
The  mistress  of  the  band. 

Marian  {sheathing  her  sword) . 

A  maiden  now 
Were  ill-bested  in  these  dark  days  of  John, 
Except  she  could  defend  her  innocence. 

0  lead  me  to  my  father. 

[^Exeunt  Robin  and  Marian, 

Little  John. 

Speak  to  me, 

1  am  like  a  boy  now  going  to  be  whipt ; 

I  know  I  have  done  amiss,  have  been  a  fool, 
Speak  to  me,  Kate,  and  say  you  pardon  me  ! 

Kate. 

I  never  will  speak  word  to  thee  again. 
What  ?  to  mistrust  the  girl  you  say  you  love 


342  THE  FORESTERS  act  n 

Is  to  mistrust  your  own  love  for  your  girl ! 
How  should  you  love  if  you  mistrust  your  love  ? 

Little  John. 

0  Kate,  true  love  and  jealousy  are  twins, 
And  love  is  joyful,  innocent,  beautiful, 
And  jealousy  is  wither'd,  sour  and  ugly : 
Yet  are  they  twins  and  always  go  together. 

Kate, 
Well,  well,  until  they  cease  to  go  together, 

1  am  but  a  stone  and  a  dead  stock  to  thee. 

Little  John, 
I  thought  I  saw  thee  clasp  and  kiss  a  man 
And  it  was  but  a  woman.     Pardon  me, 

Kate, 
Ay,  for  I  much  disdain  thee,  but  if  ever 
Thou  see  me  clasp  and  kiss  a  man  indeed, 
I  will  again  be  thine,  and  not  till  then.  \_Exit. 

Little  John, 
I  have  been  a  fool  and  I  have  lost  my  Kate.       {Exit. 

Re-enter  Robin, 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  343 

Robin. 
He  dozes.     I  have  left  her  watching  him. 
She  will  not  marry  till  her  father  yield. 
The  old  man  dotes. 

Nay — and  she  will  not  marry  till  Richard  come, 
And  that's  at  latter  Lammas — never  perhaps. 
Besides,  tho'  Friar  Tuck  might  make  us  one, 
An  outlaw's  bride  may  not  be  wife  in  law. 
I  am  weary.  \_Lying  down  on  a  bank. 

What's  here  ?  a  dead  bat  in  the  fairy  ring — 
Yes,  I  remember.  Scarlet  hacking  down 
A  hollow  ash,  a  bat  flew  out  at  him 
In  the  clear  noon,  and  hook'd  him  by  the  hair, 
And  he  was  scared  and  slew  it.     My  men  say 
The  fairies  haunt  this  glade  ; — if  one  could  catch 
A  glimpse  of  them  and  of  their  fairy  Queen — 
Have  our  loud  pastimes  driven  them  all  away  ? 
I  never  saw  them :  yet  I  could  believe 
There  came  some  evil  fairy  at  my  birth 
And  cursed  me,  as  the  last  heir  of  my  race  : 
'  This  boy  will  never  wed  the  maid  he  loves, 
Nor  leave  a  child  behind  him '  (^yawns') .     Weary — 

weary 
As  iho'  a  spell  were  on  me  {lie  dreams). 

[  The  whole  stage  lights  up,  and  fairies  are  seen  swing- 
ing on  boughs  and  nestling  in  hollow  trunks. 


344  THE  FORESTERS  '  act  il 

TiTANiA  on  a  hill.     Fairies  on  either  side  of  her. 
The  moon  above  the  hill. 

First  Fairy. 
Evil  fairy!  do  you  hear? 
So  he  said  who  lieth  here. 

Second  Fairy. 
We  be  fairies  of  the  wood, 
We  be  7ieither  bad  nor  good. 

First  Fairy. 
Back  and  side  and  hip  and  rib, 
Nip,  nip  him  for  his  fib. 

Titania. 
Nip  him  not,  but  let  him  snore. 
We  must  flit  for  evermore. 

First  Fairy. 
Tit,  my  queen,  must  it  be  so  ? 
Wherefore,  wherefore  should  we  go? 

Titania. 
/  Titania  bid  you  flit. 
And  you  dare  to  call  me  Tit. 


SCENE  11  THE  FORESTERS  345 

First  Fairy. 
Tit,  for  love  and  brevity, 
Not  for  love  of  levity. 

TiTANIA. 

Pertest  of  our  flickering  mob, 
Wouldst  thou  call  my  Oberon  Ob  ? 

First  Fairy. 
Nay,  an  please  your  Elfin  Grace, 
Never  Ob  before  his  face. 

TiTANIA. 

Fairy  realm  is  breaking  down 
When  the  fairy  slights  the  croivn. 

First  Fairy. 
No,  by  wisp  and  glowworm,  no. 
Only  wherefore  should  we  go  ? 

TiTANIA. 

We  must  fly  from  Robin  Hood 
And  this  new  queen  of  the  wood. 

First  Fairy. 

True,  she  is  a  goodly  thing. 
Jealousy,  jealousy  of  the  king. 


346  THE  FORESTERS  act  ii 

TiTANIA. 

Nay,  for  Oberon  fled  away 
Twenty  thotisajid  leagues  to-day. 

Chorus. 

Look,  there  comes  a  deputation 
From  our  finikin  fairy  nation. 

Enter  several  Fairies. 

Third  Fairy. 

Crush'd  my  bat  whereon  I  flew. 
Found  him  dead  and  drench' d  in  dew, 

Queen. 

Fourth  Fairy. 
Quash' d  my  frog  that  used  to  quack 
When  I  vaulted  on  his  back, 

Queen. 

Fifth  Fairy. 
KiWd  the  sward  where'er  they  sat, 

Queen. 

Sixth  Fairy. 
Lusty  bracken  beaten  flat, 

Queen. 


SCENE  II  THE  FORESTERS  347 

Seventh  Fairy. 

Honest  daisy  deadly  bruised, 

Queen. 

Eighth  Fairy. 

Modest  maiden  lily  abused, 

Queen. 

Ninth  Fairy. 

Beetle' s  jewel  armour  crack' d, 

Queen. 

Tenth  Fairy. 

Reed  I  rock'd  upon  broken-back' d, 

Queen. 

Fairies  {in  chorus') . 

We  be  scared  with  song  a?id  shout. 
Arrows  whistle  all  about. 
All  our  games  be  put  to  rout. 
All  our  rings  be  trampled  out. 
Lead  us  thou  to  some  deep  glen. 
Far  from  solid  foot  of  men, 
Never  to  return  again, 

Queen. 


348  THE  FORESTERS  act  \l 

TiTANiA  {to  First  Fairy). 

Elf,  with  spiteful  heart  and  eye, 
Talk  of  jealousy  ?  You  see  tuhy 
We  must  leave  the  wood  and  fly. 

(To  all  the  fairies  who  sing  at  intervals  with  Titania.) 

Up  with  you,  out  of  the  fo7-est  and  over  the  hills  and 
away. 

And  over  this  Robin  Hood^s  bay  ! 

Up  thro''  the  light  of  the  seas  by  the  moo7i's  long-silver- 
ing ray  I 

To  a  land  where  the  fay. 

Not  an  eye  to  survey, 

In  the  night,  in  the  day. 

Can  have  frolic  and  play. 

Up  with  you,  all  of  you,  out  of  it  /  hear  and  obey. 

Man,  lying  here  alone, 

Moody  creature. 

Of  a  nature 

Stronger,  sadder  than  my  own. 

Were  I  human,  were  I  human, 

I  could  love  you  like  a  woman. 

Man,  man. 

You  shall  wed  your  Marian. 

She  is  true,  and  you  are  true^ 


SCENE  n  THE  FORESTERS  349 

And  you  love  her  and  she  loves  you  ; 
Both  be  happy,  and  adieu  for  ever  and  for  evenyiore — 
adieu. 

Robin  {half  waking). 
Shall  I  be  happy  ?     Happy  vision,  stay. 

TiTANIA. 

Up  with  you,  all  of  you,  off  with  you,  out  of  it,  over  the 
wood  and  away  ! 


END  OF  ACT  II. 


N'ote. — In  the  stage  copy  of  my  play  I  have  had  this 
Fairy  Scene  transferred  to  the  end  of  the  Third  Act,  for 
the  sake  of  modern  dramatic  effect. 


ACT  III 

THE  CROWNING   OF  MARIAN 


ACT   III. 

Scene  I. — Heart  of  the  forest 

Marian  and  Kate  {in  Fo?-esters^  green) . 

Kate. 
What  makes  you  seem  so  cold  to  Robin,  lady  ? 

Marian. 
What  makes  thee  think  I  seem  so  cold  to  Robin  ? 

Kate. 

You  never  whisper  close  as  lovers  do, 
Nor  care  to  leap  into  each  other's  arms. 

Marian. 

There  is  a  fence  I  cannot  overleap, 

My  father's  will. 
VOL,  VI.  2  a  353 


354  THE  FORESTERS  act  iii 

Kate, 
Then  you  will  wed  the  Sheriff  ? 

Marian. 

When  heaven  falls,  I  may  light  on  such  a  lark  ! 
But  who  art  thou  to  catechize  me — thou 
That  hast  not  made  it  up  with  Little  John  ! 

Kate. 
I  wait  till  Little  John  makes  up  to  me. 

Marian. 
Why,  my  good  Robin  fancied  me  a  man. 
And  drew  his  sword  upon  me,  and  Little  John 
Fancied  he  saw  thee  clasp  and  kiss  a  man, 

Kate. 
Well,  if  he  fancied  that  /  fancy  a  man 
Other  than  /«>«,  he  is  not  the  man  for  me. 

Marian. 

And  that  would  quite  ««man  him,  heart  and  soul. 
For  both  are  thine. 

{Looking  up. ) 

But  listen — overhead — 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  355 

Fluting,  and  piping  and  luting  *  Love,  love,  love ' — 

Those  sweet  tree-Cupids  half-way  up  in  heaven, 

The  birds — would  I  were  one  of  'em  !  O  good  Kate— 

If  my  man-Robin  were  but  a  bird-Robin, 

How  happily  would  we  lilt  among  the  leaves 

*  Love,  love,  love,  love' — what  merry  madness — listen  ! 

And  let  them  warm  thy  heart  to  Little  John. 

Look  where  he  comes ! 

Kate. 

I  will  not  meet  him  yet, 
I'll  watch  him  from  behind  the  trees,  but  call 
Kate  when  you  will,  for  I  am  close  at  hand. 

Kate  stands  aside  and  enter  Robin,  and  after  him  at 
a  little  distance  Little  John,  Much  the  Miller's 
son,  and  Scarlet  with  an  oaken  chaplet,  and  other 
Foresters. 

Little  John. 
My  lord — Robin — I  crave  pardon — you  always 
seem  to  me  my  lord — I  Little  John,  he  Much  the 
miller's  son,  and  he  Scarlet,  honouring  all  womankind, 
and  more  especially  my  lady  Marian,  do  here,  in  the 
name  of  all  our  woodmen,  present  her  with  this 
oaken  chaplet  as  Queen  of  the  wood,  I  Little  John, 


356  THE  FORESTERS  act  in 

he,  young  Scarlet,  and  he,  old  Much,  and  all  the  rest 
of  us. 

Much. 

And  I,  old  Much,  say  as  much,  for  being  every 
inch  a  man  I  honour  every  inch  of  a  woman. 

Robin. 
Friend  Scarlet,  art  thou  less  a  man  than  Much? 
Why  art  thou  mute  ?     Dost  thou  not  honour  woman  ? 

Scarlet. 
Robin,  I  do,  but  I  have  a  bad  wife. 

Robin. 
Then  let  her  pass  as  an  exception,  Scarlet. 

Scarlet. 
So  I  would,  Robin,  if  any  man  would  accept  her. 

Marian  {^puts  on  the  chaplei). 
Had  I  a  bulrush  now  in  this  right  hand 
For  sceptre,  I  were  like  a  queen  indeed. 
Comrades,  I  thank  you  for  your  loyalty, 
And  take  and  wear  this  symbol  of  your  love ; 
And  were  my  kindly  father  sound  again, 
Could  live  as  happy  as  the  larks  in  heaven, 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  357 

And  join  your  feasts  and  all  your  forest  games 
As  far  as  maiden  might.     Farewell,  good  fellows  ! 

\Exeunt  several  foresters,  the  others  withdraxt 
to  the  back. 

Robin. 

Sit  here  by  me,  where  the  most  beaten  track 
Runs  thro'  the  forest,  hundreds  of  huge  oaks, 
Gnarl'd — older  than  the  thrones  of  Europe — look, 
What  breadth,  height,  strength — torrents  of  eddying 

bark! 
Some  hollow-hearted  from  exceeding  age — 
That  never  be  thy  lot  or  mine  ! — and  some 
Pillaring  a  leaf-sky  on  their  monstrous  boles, 
Sound  at  the  core  as  we  are.     Fifty  leagues 
Of  woodland  hear  and  know  my  horn,  that  scares 
The  Baron  at  the  torture  of  his  churls. 
The  pillage  of  his  vassals. 

O  maiden-wife, 
The  oppression  of  our  people  moves  me  so. 
That  when  I  think  of  it  hotly.  Love  himself 
Seems  but  a  ghost,  but  when  thou  feel'st  with  me 
The  ghost  returns  to  Marian,  clothes  itself 
In  maiden  flesh  and  blood,  and  looks  at  once 
Maid  Marian,  and  that  maiden  freedom  which 
Would  never  brook  the  tyrant.     Live  thou  maiden  ! 
Thou  art  more  my  wife  so  feeling,  than  if  my  wife 


35 8  THE  FORESTERS  Acriii 

And    siding    with    these    proud    priests,    and    these 

Barons, 
Devils,  that  make  this  blessed  England  hell. 

Marmn. 
Earl 

Robin. 
Nay,  no  Earl  am  I.     I  am  English  yeoman. 

Marian. 
Then  /  am  yeo-woman.     O  the  clumsy  word  ! 

Robin. 

Take  thou  this  light  kiss  for  thy  clumsy  word. 
Kiss  me  again. 

Marian. 

Robin,  I  will  not  kiss  thee, 
For  that  belongs  to  marriage  ;  but  I  hold  thee 
The  husband  of  my  heart,  the  noblest  light 
That  ever  flash'd  across  my  life,  and  I 
Embrace  thee  \vith  the  kisses  of  the  soul. 

Robin. 
I  thank  thee. 

M-^RIAN. 

Scarlet  told  me — is  it  true? — 
That  John  last  week  return'd  to  Nottingham, 
And  all  the  foolish  world  is  pressing  thither. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  359 

Robin. 

Sit  here,  my  queen,  and  judge  the  world  with  me. 
Doubtless,  like  judges  of  another  bench, 
However  wise,  we  must  at  times  have  wrought 
Some  great  injustice,  yet,  far  as  we  knew, 
We  never  robb'd  one  triend  of  the  true  King. 
We  robb'd  the  traitors  that  are  leagued  with  John ; 
We  robb'd  the  lawyer  who  went  against  the  law ; 
We  spared  the  craftsman,  chapman,  all  that  live 
By  their  own  hands,  the  labourer,  the  poor  priest ; 
We  spoil'd  the  prior,  friar,  abbot,  monk, 
For  playing  upside  down  with  Holy  Writ. 
'  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor ; ' 
Take  all  they  have  and  give  it  to  thyself ! 
Then  after  we  have  eased  them  of  their  coins 
It  is  our  forest  custom  they  should  revel 
Along  with  Robin. 

Marian. 
And  if  a  woman  pass 

ROBEN. 

Dear,  in  these  days  of  Norman  license,  when 
Our  English  maidens  are  their  prey,  if  ever 
A  Norman  damsel  fell  into  our  hands. 
In  this  dark  wood  when  all  was  in  our  power 
We  never  wrong'd  a  woman. 


36o  THE  FORESTERS  act  iii 

Marian. 

Noble  Robin. 

Little  John  {coming forward). 

Here  come  three  beggars. 

Enter  the  three  Beggars. 

Little  John. 
Toll! 

First  Beggar. 

Eh  !  we  be  beggars,  we  come  to  ask  o'  you.  We 
ha'  nothing. 

Second  Beggar. 
Rags,  nothing  but  our  rags. 

Third  Beggar. 

I  have  but  one  penny  in  pouch,  and  so  you  would 
make  it  two  I  should  be  grateful. 

Marian. 

Beggars,  you  are  sturdy  rogues  that  should  be  set 
to  work.  You  are  those  that  tramp  the  country,  filch 
the  linen  from  the  hawthorn,  poison  the  house-dog. 


SCENE  I 


THE  FORESTERS  361 


and  scare  lonely  maidens  at  the  farmstead.     Search 

them,  Little  John. 

Little  John. 

These  two  have  forty  gold  marks  between  them, 

Robin. 

Robin. 

Cast  them  into  our  treasury,  the  beggars'  mites. 
Part  shall  go  to  the  almshouses  at  Nottingham,  part 
to  the  shrine  of  our  Lady.     Search  this  other. 

Little  John. 
He  hath,  as  he  said,  but  one  penny. 

Robin. 
Leave  it  with  him  and  add  a  gold  mark  thereto. 
He  hath  spoken  truth  in  a  world  of  lies. 

Third  Beggar. 
I  thank  you,  my  lord. 

Little  John. 
A  fine,  a  fine  !  he  hath  called  plain  Robin  a  lord. 
How  much  for  a  beggar  ? 

Robin. 
Take  his  penny  and  leave  him  his  gold  mark. 


362  THE  FORESTERS  ACT  iii 

Little  John. 
Sit  there,  knaves,  till  the  captain  call  for  you. 

\_They  pass  behmd  the  trunk  of  an  oak  on  the  right. 

Marian. 
Art  thou  not  hard  upon  them,  my  good  Robin  ? 

Robin. 

They  might  be  harder  upon  thee,  if  met  in  a  black 
lane  at  midnight :  the  throat  might  gape  before  the 
tongue  could  cry  who  ? 

Little  John. 
Here  comes  a  citizen,  and  I  think  his  wife. 

Enter  Citizen  and  Wife. 

Citizen. 
That  business  which  we  have  in  Nottingham 


Little  John. 
Halt! 

Citizen. 

O  dear  ^vife,  we  have  fallen  into  the  hands 
Of  Robin  Hood. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  363 

Marlon. 

And  Robin  Hood  hath  sworn — 
Shame  on  thee,  Little  John,  thou  hast  forgotten — 
That  by  the  blessed  Mother  no  man,  so 
His  own  true  wife  came  with  him,  should  be  stay'd 
From  passing  onward.     Fare  you  well,  fair  lady  ! 

[Bowing  to  her. 

Robin. 
And  may  your  business  thrive  in  Nottingham  ! 

Citizen. 

I  thank  you,  noble  sir,  the  very  blossom 

Of  bandits.     Courtesy  to  him,  wife,  and  thank  him. 

Wife. 
I  thank  you,  noble  sir,  and  will  pray  for  you 
IhdXyou  may  thrive,  but  in  some  kindlier  trade. 

Citizen. 
Away,  away,  wife,  wilt  thou  anger  him? 

\_Exeu7it  Citizen  and  his  Wife- 
Little  John. 
Here  come  three  friars. 


364  THE  FORESTERS  act  ill 

Robin. 

Marian,  thou  and  thy  woman  {looking  round'), 
Why,  where  is  Kate  ? 

Marian  {calling). 
Kate  ! 

Kate. 
Here! 

Robin. 

Thou  and  thy  woman  are  a  match  for  three 
friars.  Take  thou  my  bow  and  arrow  and  compel 
them  to  pay  toll. 

Marian. 
Toll ! 

Enter  three  Friars. 

First  Frla.r  {advancing). 

Behold  a  pretty  Dian  of  the  wood, 

Prettier  than  that  same  widow  which  you  wot  of. 

Ha,  brother.     Toll,  my  dear  ?  the  toll  of  love. 

Marian  {drawing  bow) . 
Back  !  how  much  money  hast  thou  in  thy  purse  ? 

First  Friar. 

Thou  art  playing  with  us.  How  should  poor  friars 
have  money? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  365 

Marian. 
How  much  ?  how  much  ?     Speak,  or  the  arrow  flies. 

First  Friar. 
How  much  ?  well,  now  I  bethink  me,  I  have  one 
mark  in  gold  which  a  pious  son  of  the  Church  gave 
me  this  morning  on  my  setting  forth. 

Marian  {bending  bow  at  the  second). 
And  thou  ? 

Second  Friar. 
Well,  as  he  said,  one  mark  in  gold. 

Marian  {bending  bow  at  the  third). 
And  thou  ? 

Third  Friar. 
One  mark  in  gold. 

Marian. 
Search  them,  Kate,  and  see  if  they  have  spoken 
truth. 

Kate. 

They  are  all  mark'd  men.     They  have  told  but  a 
tenth  of  the  truth  :  they  have  each  ten  marks  in  gold. 


366  THE  FORESTERS  act  hi 

Marian. 

Leave  them  each  what  they  say  is  theits,  and  take 
the  twenty-seven  marks  to  the  captain's  treasury. 
Sit  there  till  you  be  called  for. 

First  Friar. 
We  have  fall'n  into  the  hands  of  Robin  Hood. 

[Marian  and  Kate  return  to  Robin. 
[  77^1?  Friars  pass  behind  an  oak  on  the  left. 

Robin. 

Honour  to  thee,  brave  Marian,  and  thy  Kate. 

I  know  them  arrant  knaves  in  Nottingham. 

One  half  of  this  shall  go  to  those  they  have  wrong'd, 

One  half  shall  pass  into  our  treasury. 

Where  lies  that  cask  of  wine  whereof  we  plunder'd 

The  Norman  prelate  ? 

Little  John. 

In  that  oak,  where  twelve 
Can  stand  upright,  nor  touch  each  other. 

Robin. 

Good  ! 

Roll  it  in  here.     These  friars,  thieves,  and  liars, 

Shall  drink  the  health  of  our  new  woodland  Queen. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  367 

And  they  shall  pledge  thee,  Marian,  loud  enough 
To  fright  the  wild  swan  passing  overhead, 
The  mouldwarp  underfoot. 

Marian. 

They  pledge  me,  Robin  ? 
The  silent  blessing  of  one  honest  man 
Is  heard  in  heaven — the  wassail  yells  of  thief 
And  rogue  and  liar  echo  down  in  Hell, 
And  wake  the  Devil,  and  I  may  sicken  by  'em. 
Well,  well,  be  it  so,  thou  strongest  thief  of  all, 
For  thou  hast  stolen  my  will,  and  made  it  thine. 

Friar  Tuck,  Little  John,  Much, 
and  Scarlet  roll  in  cask. 

Frl^r  Tuck. 
I  marvel  is  it  sack  or  Malvoisie  ? 

RoBEsr. 
Do  me  the  service  to  tap  it,  and  thou  wilt  know. 

Friar  Tuck. 
I  would  tap  myself  in  thy  service,  Robin. 

Robin. 
And  thou  wouldst  run  more  wine  than  blood. 


368  THE  FORESTERS  act  hi 

Friar  Tuck. 
And  both  at  thy  service,  Robin. 

RoBEsr. 

I  believe  thee,  thou  art  a  good  fellow,  though  a 
friar.  \They  pour  the  ivine  into  cups.. 

Friar  Tuck. 
Fill  to  the  brim.     Our  Robin,  King  o'  the  woods, 
Wherever  the  horn  sound,  and  the  buck  bound, 
Robin,  the  people's  friend,  the  King  o'  the  woods. 

\They  dri?ik. 
Robin. 
To  the  brim  and  over  till  the  green  earth  drink 
Her  health  along  with  us  in  this  rich  draught, 
And  answer  it  in  flowers.     The  Queen  o'  the  woods, 
Wherever  the  buck  bound,  and  the  horn  sound, 
Maid  Marian,  Queen  o'  the  woods  !  \_They  drink. 

Here,  you  three  rogues, 
[7<7  the  Beggars.     Tfiey  come  out. 
You  caught  a  lonely  woodman  of  our  band. 
And  bruised  him  almost  to  the  death,  and  took 
His  monies. 

Third  Beggar. 

Captain,  nay,  it  wasn't  me. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  369 

Robin. 

You  ought  to  dangle  up  there  among  the  crows. 
Drink  to  the  health  of  our  new  Queen  o'  the  woods, 
Or  else  be  bound  and  beaten. 

First  Beggar. 

Sir,  sir — well, 
We  drink  the  health  of  thy  new  Queen  o'  the  woods. 

Robin. 
Louder  !  louder  !  Maid  Marian,  Queen  o'  the  woods  ! 

Beggars  {shouting). 
Maid  Marian,   Queen   o'   the  woods  :  Queen  o'  the 
woods. 

First  and  Second  Beggars  {aside) . 

The  black  fiend  grip  her  ! 

\They  drink. 

Robin  {to  the  Friars). 

And  you  three  holy  men, 
\They  come  out. 
You  worshippers  of  the  Virgin,  one  of  you 
Shamed  a  too  trustful  widow  whom  you  heard 
In  her  confession  ;  and  another — worse  ! — 
An  innocent  maid.     Drink  to  the  Queen  o'  the  woods, 
Or  else  be  bound  and  beaten. 

VOL.   VI.  2  B 


370  THE  FORESTERS  act  hi 

First  Friar. 

Robin  Hood, 
These  be  the  Ues  the  people  tell  of  us, 
Because  we  seek  to  curb  their  viciousness. 
However — to  this  maid,  this  Queen  o'  the  woods. 

Robin. 

Louder,  louder,  ye  knaves.     Maid  Marian  ! 
Queen  o'  the  woods  ! 

Friars  {shouiing). 
Maid  Marian,  Queen  o'  the  woods. 


Maid  ? 


First  Friar  {aside). 

Second  Friar  {aside). 
Paramour  ! 

Third  Friar  {aside). 
Hell  take  her ! 


\_They  drink. 


Friar  Tuck. 

Robin,  will  you  not  hear  one  of  these  beggars' 
catches  ?  They  can  do  it.  I  have  heard  'em  in  the 
market  at  Mansfield. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  371 

Little  John. 
No,  my  lord,  hear  ours — Robin — I  crave  pardon, 
I  always  think  of  you  as  my  lord,  but  I  may  still  say 
my  lady ;  and,  my  lady,  Kate  and  I  have  fallen  out 
again,  and  I  pray  you  to  come  between  us  again,  for, 
my  lady,  we  have  made  a  song  in  your  honour,  so 
your  ladyship  care  to  listen. 

Robin. 
Sing,  and   by   St.   Mary  these    beggars  and  these 
friars  shall  join  you.     Play  the  air,  Little  John. 

Little  John. 
Air  and  word,  my  lady,  are  maid  and  man.     Join 
them  and  they  are  a  true  marriage ;  and  so,  I  pray 
you,  my  lady,  come  between  me  and  my  Kate  and 
make  us  one  again.     Scarlet,  begin. 

\JPlayi71g  the  air  on  his  viol. 

Scarlet. 
By  all  the  deer  that  spring 
Thro'  wood  and  lawn  and  ling, 

When  all  the  leaves  are  green; 
By  arrow  and  gray  goo  sewing., 
When  horn  and  echo  ring, 
We  care  so  mt/ch  for  a  King; 

We  care  not  much  for  a   Queen — 
For  a  Queen,  for  a  Queen  <?'  the  woods. 


372  THE  FORESTERS  act  hi 

Marian. 
Do  you  call  that  in  my  honour? 

Scarlet. 

Bitters  before  dinner,  my  lady,  to  give  you  a  rehsh. 
The  first  part — made  before  you  came  among  us — 
they  put  it  upon  me  because  I  have  a  bad  wife.  I 
love  you  all  the  same.     Proceed.     \_All  the  rest  sing. 

By  all  the  leaves  of  spring, 
And  all  the  birds  that  sing 

When  all  the  leaves  are  green  ; 
By  arrow  and  by  bowstring, 
We  care  so  tnuch  for  a  King 

That  we  would  die  for  a  Queen — 
For  a  Queen,  for  a  Queen  o'  the  woods. 

Enter  Forester. 
Forester. 
Black  news,  black  news  from  Nottingham  !  I  grieve 
I  am  the  Raven  who  croaks  it.     My  lord  John, 
In  wrath  because  you  drove  him  from  the  forest. 
Is  coming  with  a  swarm  of  mercenaries 
To  break  our  band  and  scatter  us  to  the  winds. 

Marian. 

O  Robin,  Robin  !     See  that  men  be  set 
Along  the  glades  and  passes  of  the  wood 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  373 

To  warn  us  of  his  coming  !  then  each  man 
That  owns  a  wife  or  daughter,  let  him  bury  her 
Even  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to  scape 
The  glance  of  John 

Robin. 
You  hear  your  Queen,  obey  ! 


END   OF  ACT  UI 


ACT    IV 

THE   CONCLUSION 


ACT    IV 

Scene. — A  forest  bower,  cavern  in  background. 
Sunrise. 

Marian  {j-isingto  meet  Robing. 

Robin,  the  sweet  light  of  a  mother's  eye, 
That  beam  of  dawn  upon  the  opening  flcwer. 
Has  never  glanced  upon  me  when  a  child. 
He  was  my  father,  mother,  both  in  one. 
The  love  that  children  owe  to  both  I  give 
To  him  alone. 

(Robin  offers  to  caress  her.) 

Marian. 

Quiet,  good  Robin,  quiet ! 

You  lovers  are  such  clumsy  summer-flies 

For  ever  buzzing  at  your  lady's  face. 

Robin. 
Bees  rather,  flying  to  the  flower  for  honey. 

377 


378  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Marian  {sings). 

The  bee  buzz'd  up  in  the  heat. 
*  /  am  faint  for  your  honey,  my  sweet. ^ 
The  flower  said  '  Take  it,  my  dear. 
For  now  is  the  spring  of  the  year. 
So  come,  come! ' 
'  Hum  ! ' 
And  the  bee  buzzed  down  from  the  heat. 

And  the  bee  buzzed  up  in  the  cold 
When  the  flower  was  withered  and  old. 
^  Have  you  still  any  honey,  my  dear?^ 
She  said  ^Ws  the  fall  of  the  year. 
But  come,  come  /  ' 
'Hum  I ' 
And  the  bee  buzzed  off  in  the  cold. 

.  Robin. 
Out  on  thy  song  ! 

Marian. 
Did  I  not  sing  it  in  tune  ? 

Robin. 
No,  sweetheart !  out  of  tune  with  Love  and  me. 

Marian. 
And  yet  in  tune  with  Nature  and  the  bees. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  379 

Robin. 

Out  on  it,  I  say,  as  out  of  tune  and  time  ! 

Marian. 

Till  thou  thyself  shalt  come  to  sing  it — in  time. 

Robin  {taking  a  tress  of  her  hair  in  his  hand). 

Time  !  if  his  backward-working  alchemy 
Should  change  this  gold  to  silver,  why,  the  silver 
Were  dear  as  gold,  the  wrinkle  as  the  dimple. 
Thy  bee  should  buzz  about  the  Court  of  John. 
No  ribald  John  is  Love,  no  wanton  Prince, 
The  ruler  of  an  hour,  but  lawful  King, 
Whose  writ  will  run  thro'  all  the  range  of  life. 
Out  upon  all  hard-hearted  maidenhood  ! 

Marian. 

And  out  upon  all  simple  batchelors  ! 

Ah,  well !  thou  seest  the  land  has  come  between  us, 

And  my  sick  father  here  has  come  between  us, 

And  this  rich  Sheriff  too  has  come  between  us ; 

So,  is  it  not  all  over  now  between  us  ? 

Gone,  Uke  a  deer  that  hath  escaped  thine  arrow  I 

RoBEsr. 

What  deer  when  I  have  mark'd  him  ever  yet 
Escaped  mine  arrow?  over  is  it?  wilt  thou 
Give  me  thy  hand  on  that  ? 


38o  THE  FORESTERS  ACi  iv 

Marian. 

Take  it. 

Robin  {kisses  her  hand) . 

The  Sheriff ! 
This  ring  cries  out  against  thee.     Say  it  again, 
And  by  this  ring  the  lips  that  never  breathed 
Love's  falsehood  to  true  maid  will  seal  Love's  truth 
On  those  sweet  lips  that  dare  to  dally  with  it. 

Marian. 
Quiet,  quiet !  or  I  will  to  my  father. 

Robin. 

So,  then,  thy  father  will  not  grace  our  feast 
With  his  white  beard  to-day. 

Marian. 

Being  so  sick 
How  should  he,  Robin  ? 

Robin. 

Then  that  bond  he  hath 
Of  the  Abbot — wilt  thou  ask  him  for  it  ? 

Marian. 

Why? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  381 

Robin. 

I  have  sent  to  the  Abbot  and  justiciary 
To  bring  their  counter- bond  into  the  forest. 

Marian. 
But  will  they  come  ? 

Robin. 

If  not  I  have  let  them  know 
Their  lives  unsafe  in  any  of  these  our  woods, 
And  in  the  winter  I  will  fire  their  farms. 
But  I  have  sworn  by  our  Lady  if  they  come 
I  will  not  tear  the  bond,  but  see  fair  play 
Betwixt  them  and  Sir  Richard — promised  too, 
So  that  they  deal  with  us  like  honest  men, 
They  shall  be  handled  with  all  courteousness. 

Marian. 
What  wilt  thou  do  with  the  bond  then? 

Robin. 

Wait  and  see. 

What  wilt  thou  do  with  the  Sheriff? 

Marian. 

Wait  and  see, 

I  bring  the  bond.  \_Exit  Marian. 


382  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Enter  Little  John,   Friar   Tuck,  and  Much,  and 
Foresters  and  Peasants  laugJmig  and  talking. 

ROBDJ'. 

Have  you  glanced  down  thro'  all  the  forest  ways 
And   mark'd    if    those   two   knaves    from    York    be 
coming  ? 

Little  John. 
Not  yet,  but  here  comes  one  of  bigger  mould. 

Enter  King  Richard. 
Art  thou  a  knight  ? 

King  Richard. 
I  am. 

Robin. 

And  walkest  here 
Unarmour'd?  all  these  walks  are  Robin  Hood's 
And  sometimes  perilous. 

King  Richard. 

Good  !  but  having  lived 
For  twenty  days  and  nights  in  mail,  at  last 
I  crawl'd  like  a  sick  crab  from  my  old  shell. 
That  I  might  breathe  for  a  moment  free  of  shield 
And  cuirass  in  this  forest  where  I  dream'd 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  383 

That  all  was  peace — not  even  a  Robin  Hood — 
{Aside)   What  if  these  knaves  should  know  me  for 
their  King? 

Robin. 
Art  thou  for  Richard,  or  aUied  to  John? 

King  Richard. 
I  am  alhed  to  John. 

Robin. 
The  worse  for  thee. 

King  Richard. 

Art  thou  that  banish'd  lord  of  Huntingdon, 
The  chief  of  these  outlaws  who  break  the  law  ? 

Robin. 
I  am  the  yeoman,  plain  Robin  Hood,  and  being 
out  of  the  law  how  should  we  break  the  law?  if  we 
broke  into  it  again  we  should  break  the  law,  and  then 
we  were  no  longer  outlaws. 

King  Richard. 
But,  Earl,  if  thou  be  he 

Friar  Tuck. 

Fine  him  !  fine   him  !  he  hath  called  plain  Robin 
an  earl.     How  much  is  it,  Robin,  for  a  knight  ? 


3^4  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Robin. 
A  mark. 

King  Richard  {gives  if). 
There. 

Robin. 

Thou  payest  easily,  like  a  good  fellow, 

But  being  o'  John's  side  we  must  have  thy  gold. 

King  Richard. 
But  I  am  more  for  Richard  than  for  John. 

Robin. 
What,  what,  a  truckler  !  a  word-eating  coward  ! 
Nay,  search  him  then.     How  much  hast  thou  about 
thee? 

King  Richard. 
I  had  one  mark. 

Robin. 

What  more? 

King  Richard. 

No  more,  I  think. 
But  how  then  if  I  will  not  bide  to  be  search'd  ? 

Robin. 
We  are  four  to  one. 


SCENE  I  THE   FORESTERS  385 


Kjng  Richard. 


And  I  might  deal  with  four. 


Robin. 

Good,  good,  I  love  thee  for  that !  but  if  I  wind 
This  forest-horn  of  mine  I  can  bring  down 
Fourscore  tall  fellows  on  thee. 

King  Richard. 

Search  me  then. 
I  should  be  hard  beset  with  thy  fourscore. 

Little  John  {searching  Ya^g  Richard). 
Robin,  he  hath  no  more.     He  hath  spoken  truth. 

Robin. 
I  am  glad  of  it.     Give  him  back  his  gold  again. 

King  Richard. 
But  I  had  liefer  than  this  gold  again — 
Not  having  broken  fast  the  livelong  day — 
Something  to  eat. 

RORIN. 

And  thou  shalt  have  it,  man. 
Our  feast  is  yonder,  spread  beneath  an  oak, 

VOL.   VI.  2  C 


386  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Venison,  and  wild  boar,  wild  goose,  besides 
Hedge-pigs,  a  savoury  viand,  so  thou  be 
Squeamish  at  eating  the  King's  venison. 

King  Richard. 
Nay,  Robin,  I  am  like  thyself  in  that 
I  look  on  the  King's  venison  as  my  own. 

Friar  Tuck. 
Ay,  ay,  Robin,  but  let  him  know  our  forest  laws  : 
he  that  pays  not  for  his  dinner  must  fight  tor  it.  In 
the  sweat  of  thy  brow,  says  Holy  ^^^rit,  shalt  thou 
eat  bread,  but  in  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  and  thy  breast, 
and  thine  arms,  and  thy  legs,  and  thy  heart,  and  thy 
liver,  and  in  the  fear  of  thy  life  shalt  thou  eat  the 
King's  venison — ay,  and  so  thou  fight  at  quarterstafF 
for  thy  dinner  with  our  Robin,  that  will  give  thee  a 
new  zest  for  it,  though  thou  wert  like  a  bottle  full  up 
to  the  cork,  or  as  hollow  as  a  kex,  or  the  shambles- 
oak,  or  a  weasel-sucked  egg,  or  the  head  of  a  fool,  or 
the  heart  of  Prince  John,  or  any  other  symbol  of 
vacuity. 

\^They  bring  out  the  quarterstaffs,  and  the  foresters 

and  peasants  erowd  round  to  see  the  games,  and 

applaud  at  intervals. 

King  Richard. 
Great  woodland  king,  I  know  not  quarterstaff. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  387 

Little  John. 

A  fine  !   a  fine  !      He   hath   called  plain  Robin  a 

king. 

Robin. 

A  shadow,  a  poetical  fiction — did  ye  not  call  me 
king  in  your  song  ? — a  mere  figure.     Let  it  go  by. 

Frmr  Tuck. 

No  figure,  no  fiction,  Robin.  What,  is  not  man 
a  hunting  animal?  And  look  you  now,  if  we  kill  a 
stag,  our  dogs  have  their  paws  cut  off,  and  the  hunters, 
if  caught,  are  blinded,  or  worse  than  blinded.  Is 
that  to  be  a  king?  If  the  king  and  the  law  work 
injustice,  is  not  he  that  goes  against  the  king  and  the 
law  the  true  king  in  the  sight  of  the  King  of  kings  ? 
Thou  art  the  king  of  the  forest,  and  I  would  thou 
wert  the  king  of  the  land. 

King  Richard.  ' 

This  friar  is  of  much  boldness,  noble  captain. 

Robin. 
He  hath  got  it  from  the  bottle,  noble  knight. 

Friar  Tuck. 

Boldness  out  of  the  bottle  !  I  defy  thee. 
Boldness  is  in  the  blood,  Truth  in  the  bottle. 


388  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

She  lay  so  long  at  the  bottom  of  her  well 

In  the  cold  water  that  she  lost  her  voice, 

And  so  she  glided  up  into  the  heart 

O'  the  bottle,  the  warm  wine,  and  found  it  again. 

In  vino  Veritas.     Shall  I  undertake 

The  knight  at  quarterstaff,  or  thou  ? 

Robin. 
Peace,  magpie  ! 

Give  him  the  quarterstaff.     Nay,  but  thyself 
Shalt  play  a  bout  with  me,  that  he  may  see 
The  fashion  of  it. 

{^Plays  2vith  Little  John  at  quarterstaff. 

King  Richard. 

Well,  then,  let  me  try.     \TJiey  play. 
I  yield,  I  yield.     I  know  no  quarterstaff. 

Robin. 
Then  thou  shalt  play  the  game  of  buffets  with  us. 

King  Richard. 
What's  that? 

Robin. 
I  stand  up  here,  thou  there.     I  give  thee 
A  buffet,  and  thou  me.     The  Holy  Virgin 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  389 

Stand  by  the  strongest.     I  am  overbreathed, 
Friar,  by  my  two  bouts  at  quarterstaff. 
Take  him  and  try  him,  friar. 

Friar  Tuck. 
There !  {Strikes. 

King  Richard  {strikes). 
There  !  [Ykikr  falls, 

Frmr  Tuck. 

There  ! 
Thou  hast  roll'd  over  the  Church  miUtant 
Like  a  tod  of  wool  from  wagon  into  warehouse. 
Nay,  I  defy  thee  still.     Try  me  an  hour  hence. 
I  am  misty  with  my  thimbleful  of  ale. 

Robin. 

Thou  seest,  Sir  Knight,  our  friar  is  so  holy 

That  he's  a  miracle-monger,  and  can  make 

Five  quarts  pass  into  a  thimble.     Up,  good  Much. 

Frur  Tuck. 
And  show  thyself  more  of  a  man  than  me. 

Much. 
Well,  no  man  yet  has  ever  bowl'd  me  down. 


390  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Scarlet. 
Ay,  for  old  Much  is  every  inch  a  man. 

Robin. 
We  should  be  all  the  more  beholden  to  him. 

Much. 
Much  and  more  !    much   and    more  !      I  am  the 
oldest  of  thy  men,  and  thou  and  thy  youngsters  are 
always  muching  and  moreing  me. 

RoBEsr. 

Because  thou  art  always  so  much  more  of  a  man 
than  my  youngsters,  old  Much. 

Much. 
Well,  we  Muches  be  old. 

Robin. 
Old  as  the  hills. 

Much. 

Old   as   the  mill.     We  had  it  i'  the  Red  King's 

time,   and  so  I  may  be  more  of  a  man  than  to  be 

bowled  over  like  a  ninepin.     There  !  \Strikes. 

King  Richard. 
There  !  [Much  falls. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  391 


ROBESr. 
'  Much  would   have  more,'  says  the  proverb ;  but 
Much  hath   had   more  than  enough.      Give   me  thy 
hand,   ]Sluch ;  I  love   thee  {lifts  him  up) .     At  him, 
Scarlet  1 

Scarlet. 

I  cannot  cope  with  him  :  my  wrist  is  strain'd. 

King  Richard. 
Try,  thyself,  valorous  Robin  ! 

Robin. 

I  am  mortally  afear'd  o'  thee,  thou  big  man, 
But  seeing  valour  is  one  against  all  odds, 
There  ! 

King  Richard. 

There  !  [Robin  /a//s  back,  and  is  caught  in 

the  anns  of  Little  John. 

Robin. 

Good,  now  I  love  thee  mightil)',  thou  tall  fellow. 
Break  thine  alliance  with  this  faithless  John, 
And  live  with  us  and  the  birds  in  the  green  wood. 

King  Richard. 

I  cannot  break  it,  Robin,  if  I  wish'd. 
Still  i  am  more  for  Richard  than  for  John. 


392  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Little  John. 
Look,  Robin,  at  the  far  end  of  the  glade 
I  see  two  figures  crawling  up  the  hill. 

\_Distant  sound  of  tnnnpets. 

Robin. 
The  Abbot  of  York  and  his  justiciary. 

King  Richard  {aside). 
They  know  me.     I  must  not  as  yet  be  known. 
Friends,    your   free   sports   have   swallow'd   my   free 

hour. 
Farewell  at  once,  for  I  must  hence  upon 
The  King's  affair. 

Robin. 
Not  taste  his  venison  first  ? 

Friar  Tuck. 
Hast  thou  not  fought  for  it,  and  earn'd  it?    Stay, 
Dine  with  my  brethren  here,  and  on  thine  own. 

King  Richard. 
And  which  be  they? 

Frur  Tuck. 
Wild  geese,  for  how  canst  thou  be  thus  allied 
With  John,  and  serve  King  Richard  save  thou  be 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS 


393 


A  traitor  or  a  goose  ?  but  stay  with  Robin ; 

For  Robin  is  no  scatterbrains  like  Richard, 

Robin's  a  wise  man,  Richard  a  wiseacre, 

Robin's  an  outlaw,  but  he  helps  the  poor. 

While  Richard  hath  outlaw'd  himself,  and  helps 

Nor  rich,  nor  poor.     Richard's  the  king  of  courtesy, 

For  if  he  did  me  the  good  grace  to  kick  me 

I  could  but  sneak  and  smile  and  call  it  courtesy, 

For  he's  a  king. 

And  that  is  only  courtesy  by  courtesy — 

But  Robin  is  a  thief  of  courtesy 

Whom  they  that  suffer  by  him  call  the  blossom 

Of  bandits.     There — to  be  a  thief  of  courtesy — 

There  is  a  trade  of  genius,  there's  glory  ! 

Again,  this  Richard  sacks  and  wastes  a  town 

With  random  pillage,  but  our  Robin  takes 

From  whom  he  knows  are  hypocrites  and  liars. 

Again  this  Richard  risks  his  life  for  a  straw. 

So  lies  in  prison — while  our  Robin's  hfe 

Hangs  by  a  thread,  but  he  is  a  free  man. 

Richard,  again,  is  king  over  a  realm 

He  hardly  knows,  and  Robin  king  of  Sherwood, 

And  loves  and  doats  on  every  dingle  of  it. 

Again  this  Richard  is  the  lion  of  Cyprus, 

Robin,  the  lion  of  Sherwood — may  this  mouth 

Never  suck  grape  again,  if  our  true  Robin 

Be  not  the  nobler  lion  of  the  twain. 


394  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

King  Richard. 
Gramercy  for  thy  preachment !  if  the  land 
Were  ruleable  by  tongue,  thou  shouldst  be  king. 
And  yet  thou  know'st  how  little  of  thy  king  ! 
What  was  this  realm  of  England,  all  the  crowns 
Of  all  this  world,  to  Richard  when  he  flung 
His  life,  heart,  soul  into  those  holy  wars 
That  sought  to  free  the  tomb-place  of  the  King 
Of  all  the  world  ?  thou,  that  art  churchman  too 
In  a  fashion,  and  shouldst  feel  with  him.     Farewell ! 
I  left  mine  horse  and  armour  with  a  Squire, 
And  I  must  see  to  'em. 

Robin. 

When  wilt  thou  return? 

King  Richard. 
Return,  I?  when?  when  Richard  will  return. 

Robin. 
No  sooner?  when  will  that  be?  canst  thou  tell? 
But  I  have  ta'en  a  sudden  fancy  to  thee. 
Accept  this  horn  !  if  e'er  thou  be  assail'd 
In  any  of  our  forests,  blow  upon  it 
Three  mots,  this  fashion— listen  !  {blows)  Canst  thou 
do  it  ?  [King  Richard  blows. 

Blown  like  a  true  son  of  the  woods.     Farewell ! 

\Exit  King  Richard. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS 


395 


Enter  Abbot  and  Justiciary. 

Friar  Tuck. 
Church  and  Law,  halt  and  pay  toll ! 

Justiciary. 

Rogue,  we  have  thy  captain's  safe-conduct ;  though 
he  be  the  chief  of  rogues,  he  hath  never  broken  his 
word. 

Abbot. 

There  is  our  bond. 

[  Gives  it  to  Robin. 
RoBEsr. 

I  thank  thee. 

Justiciary. 

Ay,  but  where, 
Where  is  this  old  Sir  Richard  of  the  Lea? 
Thou  told'st  us  we  should  meet  him  in  the  forest. 
Where  he  would  pay  us  down  his  thousand  marks. 

Robin. 
Give  him  another  month,  and  he  will  pay  it. 

Justiciary. 
We  cannot  give  a  month. 


396  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Robin. 

Why  then  a  week. 

Justiciary. 
No,  not  an  hour :  the  debt  is  due  to-day. 

Abbot. 
Where  is  this  laggard  Richard  of  the  Lea? 

Robin. 
He  hath  been  hurt,  was  growing  whole  again, 
Only  this  morning  in  his  agony 
Lest  he  should  fail  to  pay  these  thousand  marks 
He  is  stricken  with  a  slight  paralysis. 
Have  you  no  pity  ?  must  you  see  the  man  ? 

Justiciary. 
Ay,  ay,  what  else  ?  how  else  can  this  be  settled  ? 

Robin. 
Go  men,  and  fetch  him  hither  on  the  litter. 

[Sir  Richard  Lea  is  brought  in. 
Marian  comes  with  him. 

Marian. 
Here  is  my  father's  bond.     [  Gives  it  to  Robin  Hood. 

Robin. 

I  thank  thee,  dear. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  397 

Justiciary. 

Sir  Richard,  it  was  agreed  when  you  borrowed 
these  monies  from  the  Abbot  that  if  they  were  not 
repaid  within  a  hmited  time  your  land  should  be 
forfeit. 

Sir  Richard. 
The  land  !  the  land. 

Marian. 

You  see  he  is  past  himself. 
What  would  you  more  ? 

Abbot. 

What  more  ?  one  thousand  marks, 
Or  else  the  land. 
You  hide  this  damsel  in  your  forest  here, 

\JPoinfing  to  Marian. 
You  hope  to  hold  and  keep  her  for  yourself, 
You  heed  not  how  you  soil  her  maiden  fame, 
You  scheme  against  her  father's  weal  and  hers, 
For  so  this  maid  would  wed  our  brother,  he 
Would  pay  us  all  the  debt  at  once,  and  thus 
This  old  Sir  Richard  might  redeem  his  land. 
He  is  all  for  love,  he  cares  not  for  the  land. 


398  THE  FORESTERS  act  i\ 

Sir  Richard. 
The  land,  the  land  ! 

Robin  {giving  two  bags  to  the  Abbot)  . 

Here  be  one  thousand  marks 
Out  of  our  treasury  to  redeem  the  land. 

\_Pointing  to  each  of  the  bags. 
Half  here,  half  there.  \_Plaudits  from  his  band. 

JUSTICURY. 

Ay,  ay,  but  there  is  use,  four  hundred  marks. 

Robin  {giving  a  bag  to  Justiciary)  . 
There  then,  four  hundred  marks.  \_Plaudits. 

Justiciary. 

What  did  I  say  ? 
Nay,  my  tongue  tript — five  hundred  marks  for  use. 

Robin  {giving  another  bag  to  him). 

A  hundred  more  ?     There  then,  a  hundred  more. 

\_Plaudits. 
Justiciary. 

Ay,  ay,  but  you  see  the  bond  and  the  letter  of  the 
law.  It  is  stated  there  that  these  monies  should  be 
paid  in  to  the  Abbot  at  York,  at  the  end  of  the 
month  at  noon,  and  they  are  delivered  here  in  the 
wild  wood  an  hour  after  noon. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  399 

Marian. 
The  letter — O  how  often  justice  drowns 
Between  the  law  and  letter  of  the  law  ! 
O  God,  I  would  the  letter  of  the  law 
Were  some  strong  fellow  here  in  the  wild  wood. 
That  thou  might'st  beat  him  down  at  quarterstaff ! 
Have  you  no  pity? 

Justiciary. 

You  run  down  your  game, 
We  ours.     What  pity  have  you  for  your  game? 

Robin. 

We  needs  must  live.  Our  bowmen  are  so  true 
They  strike  the  deer  at  once  to  death — he  falls 
And  knows  no  more. 

Marian. 
Pity,  pity  ! — There  was  a  man  of  ours 
Up  in  the  north,  a  goodly  fellow  too, 
He  met  a  stag  there  on  so  narrow  a  ledge — 
A  precipice  above,  and  one  below — 
There  was  no  room  to  advance  or  to  retire. 
The  man  lay  down — the  delicate-footed  creature 
Came  stepping  o'er  him,  so  as  not  to  harm  him — 
The  hunter's  passion  flash'd  into  the  man. 
He  drove  his  knife  into  the  heart  of  the  deer, 
The  deer  fell  dead  to  the  bottom,  and  the  man 


400  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Fell  with  him,  and  was  crippled  ever  after. 
I  fear  I  had  small  pity  for  that  man. — 
You  have  the  monies  and  the  use  of  them. 
What  would  you  more  ? 

Justiciary. 
What  ?  must  we  dance  attendance  all  the  day  ? 

Robin. 

Dance  !  ay,  by  all  the  saints  and  all  the  devils  ye 
shall  dance.  When  the  Church  and  the  law  have 
forgotten  God's  music,  they  shall  dance  to  the  music 
of  the  wild  wood.  Let  the  birds  sing,  and  do  you 
dance  to  their  song.  What,  you  will  not?  Strike 
up  our  music,  Little  John.  (^He  plays.)  They  will 
not !  Prick  'em  in  the  calves  with  the  arrow-points — 
prick  'em  in  the  calves. 

Abbot. 
Rogue,  I  am  full  of  gout.     I  cannot  dance. 

RoBm. 
And  Sir  Richard  cannot  redeem  his  land.     Sweat 
out  your  gout,  friend,  for  by  my  life,  you  shall  dance 
till  he  can.     Prick  him  in  the  calves  ! 

Justiciary. 
Rogue,  I  have  a  swollen  vein  in  my  right  leg,  and 
if  thou  prick  me  there  I  shall  die. 


SCENE  I 


THE  FORESTERS  401 


Robin. 
Prick  him  where  thou  wilt,  so  that  he  dance. 

Abbot. 
Rogue,  we  come  not  alone. 

Justiciary. 
Not  the  right. 

Abbot. 
We  told  the  Prince  and  the  Sheriff  of  our  coming. 

Justiciary. 
Take  the  left  leg  for  the  love  of  God. 

Abbot. 
They  follow  us. 

Justiciary. 

You  will  all  of  you  hang. 

Robin. 
Let  us  hang,  so  thou  dance  meanwhile  ;  or  by  that 
same  love  of  God  we  will  hang  thee,  prince   or  no 
prince,  sheriff  or  no  sheriff. 

VOL.   VI.  2D 


402  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Justiciary. 

Take  care,  take  care  !     I  dance — I  will  dance — I 
dance.  [Abbot  and  Justiciary  da}ice  to  music, 

each  holding  a  bag  in  each  hand. 

Enter  Scarlet. 

Scarlet. 
The  Sheriff!  the  Sheriff,  foUow'd  by  Prince  John 
And  all  his  mercenaries  !     We  sighted  'em 
Only  this  moment.     By  St.  Nicholas 
They  must  have  sprung  like  Ghosts  from  underground, 
Or,  like  the  Devils  they  are,  straight  up  from  Hell. 

Robin. 

Crouch  all  into  the  bush  ! 

{The  foresters  and  peasants  hide  behind  the  hushes. 

Marun. 

Take  up  the  litter  ! 

Sir  Richard. 
Move  me  no  more  !     I  am  sick  and  faint  with  pain  ! 

Marlon. 
But,  Sir,  the  Sheriff 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  403 

Sir  Richard. 

I,et  me  be,  I  say  ! 
The  SherilT  will  be  welcome  !  let  me  be  ! 

Marian. 

Give  me  my  bow  and  arrows.     I  remain 
Beside  my  Father's  litter. 

Robin. 

And  fear  not  thou  ! 
Each  of  us  has  an  arrow  on  the  cord ; 
We  all  keep  watch. 

Enter  Sheriff  of  Nottingham, 

Sheriff. 
Marian  ! 

Marian. 

Speak  not.     I  wait  upon  a  dying  father. 

Sheriff. 
The  debt  hath  not  been  paid.     She  will  be  mine. 
What  are  you  capering  for?     By  old  St.  Vitus 
Have  you  gone  mad?     Has  it  been  paid? 

Abbot  {dancwg). 

O  yes. 


404  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Sheriff. 
Have  I  lost  her  then  ? 

JUSTICL4RY  {dancing). 

Lost  her?     O  no,  we  took 
Advantage  of  the  letter— O  Lord,  the  vein  ! 
Not  paid  at  York — the  wood — prick  me  no  more  ! 

Sheriff. 
What  pricks  thee  save  it  be  thy  conscience,  man  ? 

Justiciary. 

By  my  hahdome  I  felt  him  at  my  leg  still.     Where 
be  they  gone  to  ? 

Sheriff. 
Thou  art  alone  in  the  silence  of  the  forest 
Save  for  this  maiden  and  thy  brother  Abbot, 
And  this  old  crazeling  in  the  litter  there. 

Enter  on  one  side  Friar  Tuck  fro?n  the  bush,  atid  on 
the  other  Prince  Johx  and  his  Spearmen,  with 
banners  and  trumpets,  etc. 

Justiciary  {exami?iing  his  leg). 
They  have  missed  the  vein. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  405 

Abbot. 
And  we  shall  keep  the  land. 

Sheriff. 

Sweet  Marian,  by  the  letter  of  the  law 
It  seems  thy  father's  land  is  forfeited. 

Sir  Richard. 
No  !  let  me  out  of  the  litter.     He  shall  wed  thee  : 
The  land  shall  still  be  mine.     Child,  thou  shalt  wed 

him, 
Or  thine  old  father  will  go  mad — he  will, 
He  will — he  feels  it  in  his  head. 

Marian. 

O  peace  ! 
Father,  I  cannot  marry  till  Richard  comes. 

Sir  Richard. 

And  then  the  Sheriff ! 

Marian. 

Ay,  the  Sheriff,  father, 
Would  buy  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold — 
Sell  me  again  perchance  for  twice  as  much. 
A  woman's  heart  is  but  a  little  thing. 
Much  lighter  than  a  thousand  marks  in  gold ; 


4o6  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

But  pity  for  a  father,  it  may  be, 

Is  weightier  than  a  thousand  marks  in  gold. 

I  cannot  love  the  Sheriff. 

Sir  Richard. 

But  thou  wilt  wed  him  ? 

MarL'IN. 
Ay,  save  King  Richard,  when  he  comes,  forbid  me. 
Sweet  heavens,  I  could  wish  that  all  the  land 
Were  plunged  beneath  the  waters  of  the  sea, 
Tho'  all  the  world  should  go  about  in  boats. 

Friar  Tuck. 
Why,  so  should  all  the  love-sick  be  sea-sick. 

Marlan. 
Better  than  heart-sick,  friar. 

Prince  John  {to  Sheriff). 

See  you  not 
They  are  jesting  at  us  yonder,  mocking  us? 
Carry  her  off,  and  let  the  old  man  die. 

\_Adva7icing  to  Marian. 
Come,  girl,  thou  shalt  along  with  us  on  the  instant. 

Friar  Tuck  {brandishing  his  staff). 
Then  on  the  instant  I  will  break  thy  head. 


scene  i  the  foresters  407 

Sheriff. 
Back,  thou  fool-friar  !     Knowest  thou  not  the  Prince  ? 

Friar  Tuck  {muttering). 
He  may  be  prince  ;  he  is  not  gentleman. 

Prince  John. 

Look  !  I  will  take  the  rope  from  off  thy  waist 
And  twist  it  round  thy  neck  and  hang  thee  by  it. 
Seize  him  and  truss  him  up,  and  carry  her  off. 

[Frl4R  Tuck  slips  into  the  dusk. 

Marl4N  {drawing  the  bow). 

No  nearer  to  me  !  back  !     My  hand  is  firm. 
Mine  eye  most  true  to  one  hair's-breadth  of  aim. 
You,  Prince,  our  king  to  come — you  that  dishonour 
The  daughters  and  the  wives  of  your  own  faction — 
Who  hunger  for  the  body,  not  the  soul — 
This  gallant  Prince  would  have  me  of  his — what? 
Household  ?  or  shall  I  call  it  by  that  new  term 
Brought  from  the  sacred  East,  his  harem?     Never, 
Tho'  you  should  queen  me  over  all  the  realms 
Held  by  King  Richard,  could  I  stoop  so  low 
As  mate  with  one  that  holds  no  love  is  pure, 
No  friendship  sacred,  values  neither  man 
Nor  woman  save  as  tools — God  help  the  mark — 
To  his  own  unprincely  ends.     And  you,  you.  Sheriff, 

\_Turning  to  the  Sheriff. 


4o8  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Who  thought  to  buy  your  marrying  me  with  gold, 

Marriage  is  of  the  soul,  not  of  the  body. 

Win  me  you  cannot,  murder  me  you  may, 

And  all  I  love,  Robin,  and  all  his  men. 

For  I  am  one  with  him  and  his ;  but  while 

I  breathe  Heaven's  air,  and  Heaven  looks  down  on 

me. 

And  smiles  at  my  best  meanings,  I  remain 

Mistress  of  mine  own  self  and  mine  own  soul. 

\_Retreating,  with  bow  drawn,  to  the  bush. 

Robin  ! 

Robin. 

I  am  here,  my  arrow  on  the  cord. 
He  dies  who  dares  to  touch  thee. 

Prince  John. 

Advance,  advance  ! 
What,  daunted  by  a  garrulous,  arrogant  girl ! 
Seize  her  and  carry  her  off  into  my  castle. 

Sheriff. 
Thy  castle  ! 

Prince  John. 

Said  I  not,  I  loved  thee,  man? 
Risk  not  the  love  I  bear  thee  for  a  girl. 

Sheriff. 
Thy  castle ! 


SCENE  I  THE   FORESTERS  409 

Prince  John. 

See  thou  thwart  me  not,  thou  fool ! 
When  Richard  comes  he  is  soft  enough  to  pardon 
His  brother ;  but  all  those  that  held  with  him. 
Except  I  plead  for  them,  will  hang  as  high 
As  Haman. 

Sheriff. 

She  is  mine.     I  have  thy  promise. 

Prince  John. 

O  ay,  she  shall  be  thine — first  mine,  then  thine, 
For  she  shall  spend  her  honeymoon  with  me. 

Sheriff. 
Woe  to  that  land  shall  own  thee  for  her  king  ! 

Prince  John. 
Advance,  advance  ! 

\They  advance  shouting.     The  King  in 
armour  reappeais  from  the  wood. 

King  Richard. 
What  shouts  are  these  that  ring  along  the  wood  ? 

Friar  Tuck  {^coming forward^. 

Hail,  knight,  and  help  us.     Here  is  one  would  clutch 
Our  pretty  Marian  for  his  paramour, 
This  other,  willy-nilly,  for  his  bride. 


4IO  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

King  Richard. 
Damsel,  is  this  the  truth? 

Marian. 

Ay,  noble  knight. 

Friar  Tuck. 
Ay,  and  she  will  not  marry  till  Richaril  come. 

King  Richard  {raising  his  vizor) . 
I  am  here,  and  I  am  he. 

Prince  John  {lowering  his,  and  whispering  to  his  men) . 

It  is  not  he — his  face — tho'  very  like — 

No,  no  !  we  have  certain  news  he  died  in  prison. 

Make  at  him,  all  of  you,  a  traitor  coming 

In  Richard's  name — it  is  not  he — not  he. 

\_The  men  stand  amazed. 

Friar  Tuck  (going  back  to  the  bush). 
Robin,  shall  we  not  move  ? 

Robin. 

It  is  the  King 
Who  bears  all  down.     Let  him  alone  awhile. 
He  loves  the  chivalry  of  his  single  arm. 
Wait  till  he  blow  the  horn. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  411 

Friar  Tuck  {commg  back). 

If  thou  be  king, 
Be  not  a  fool !     Why  blowest  thou  not  the  horn  ? 

King  Ricila.rd. 

I  that  have  turn'd  their  Moslem  crescent  pale — 

I  blow  the  horn  against  this  rascal  rout ! 

[Friar  Tuck  plucks  the  horn  from  him  and  blows. 
Richard  dashes  alone  against  the  Sheriff  and 
John's  men,  and  is  almost  borne  dowti,  when 
Robin  and  his  men  rush  in  and  j-csciie  him. 

King  Richard  {^to  Robin  Hood). 
Thou  hast  saved  my  head  at  the  peril  of  thine  own. 

Prince   John. 

A  horse  !  a  horse  !  I  must  away  at  once ; 

I  cannot  meet  his  eyes.     I  go  to  Nottingham. 

Sheriff,  thou  wilt  find  me  at  Nottingham.  \_Exit. 

Sheriff. 

If  anywhere,  I  shall  find  thee  in  hell. 

What  !  go  to  slay  his  brother,  and  make  me 

The  monkey  that  should  roast  his  chestnuts  for  him  ! 

King  Richard. 
I  fear  to  ask  who  left  us  even  now. 


412  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Robin. 

I  grieve  to  say  it  was  thy  father's  son. 
Shall  I  not  after  him  and  bring  him  back? 

King  Richard. 
No,  let  him  be.     Sheriff  of  Nottingham, 

[Sheriff  kneels 
I  have  been  away  from  England  all  these  years, 
Heading  the  holy  war  against  the  Moslem, 
While  thou  and  others  in  our  kingless  realms 
Were  fighting  underhand  unholy  wars 
Against  your  lawful  king. 

Sheriff. 

My  liege,  Prince  John— 

King  Richard. 
Say  thou  no  word  against  my  brother  John. 

Sheriff. 
Why  then,  my  liege,  I  have  no  word  to  say. 

King  Richard  {to  Robin). 
My  good  friend  Robin,  Earl  of  Huntingdon, 
For  Earl  thou  art  again,  hast  thou  no  fetters 
For  those  of  thine  own  band  who  would  betray  thee  ? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  413 

Robin. 

I  have ;  but  these  were  never  worn  as  yet. 
I  never  found  one  traitor  in  my  band. 

King  Richard. 

Thou  art  happier  than  thy  king.     Put  him  in  chains. 

[^T/ ley  fetter  the  Sheriff. 

Robin. 

Look  o'er  these  bonds,  my  liege. 

[_Shows  the  King  the  bo7ids.     They  talk  togethei\ 

King  Richard. 

You,  my  lord  Abl^ot,  you  Justiciary, 

{The  Abbot  a«^  Justiciary  kneel. 
I  made  you  Abbot,  you  Justiciar}'^ : 
You  both  are  utter  traitors  to  your  king. 

Justiciary. 
O  my  good  liege,  we  did  believe  you  dead. 

Robin. 

Was  justice  dead  because  the  King  was  dead  ? 
Sir  Richard  paid  his  monies  to  the  Abbot. 
You  crost  him  with  a  quibble  of  your  law. 


414  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

King  Richard. 
But  on  tlie  faith  and  honour  of  a  king 
The  land  is  his  again. 

Sir  Richard. 

The  land  !  the  land  ! 
I  am  crazed  no  longer,  so  I  have  the  land. 

[  Comes  out  of  the  litter  and  kneels. 
God  save  the  King  ! 

King  Richard  {raising  Sir  Richard^ 

I  thank  thee,  good  Sir  Richard. 
Maid  Marian. 

Marian. 
Yes,  King  Richard. 

King  Richard. 

Thou  wouldst  marry 
This  Sheriff  when  King  Richard  came  again 
Except — 

Marian. 
The  King  forbad  it.     True,  my  liege 

King  Richard. 
How  if  the  King  command  it? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  415 

Marian. 

Then,  my  liege, 
If  you  would  marry  me  with  a  traitor  sheriff, 
I  fear  I  might  prove  traitor  with  the  sheriff. 

King  Richard. 

But  .if  the  King  forbid  thy  marrying 

With  Robin,  our  good  Earl  of  Huntingdon. 

Marian. 
Then  will  I  live  for  ever  in  tlie  wild  wood. 

Robin  {^coming forward). 
And  I  with  thee. 

King  Richard. 

On  nuts  and  acorns,  ha  ! 
Or  the  King's  deer?     Earl,  thou  when  we  were  hence 
Hast  broken  all  our  Norman  forest-laws, 
And  scruplest  not  to  flaunt  it  to  our  face 
That  thou  wilt  break  our  forest  laws  again 
When  we  are  here.     Thou  art  overbold. 

Robin. 

My  king, 

I  am  but  the  echo  of  the  lips  of  love. 


41 6  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

King  Richard. 

Thou  hast  risk'd  thy  hfe   for  mine  :    bind  these  two 
men. 
\They  take  the  bags  from  the  Abbot  ^«^  Justiciary, 
and  proceed  to  fetter  them. 

Justiciary. 
But  will  the  King,  then,  judge  us  all  unheard  ? 
I  can  defend  my  cause  against  the  traitors 
Who  fain  would  make  me  traitor.     If  the  King 
Condemn  us  without  trial,  men  will  call  him 
An  Eastern  tyrant,  not  an  English  king. 

Abbot, 
Besides,  my  liege,  these  men  are  outlaws,  thieves, 
They  break  thy  forest  laws — nay,  by  the  rood 
They  have  done  far  worse — they  plunder — yea,  ev'n 
bishops, 

Yea,  ev'n  archbishops — if  thou  side  with  these, 
Beware,  O  King,  the  vengeance  of  the  Church. 

Friar  Tuck  {brandishing  his  staff) . 
I  pray  you,  ray  liege,  let  me  execute  the  vengeance 
of  the  Church  upon  them.     I  have  a  stout  crabstick 
here,  which  longs  to  break  itself  across  their  backs. 

Robin. 
Keep  silence,  bully  friar,  before  the  King. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  417 

Friar  Tuck. 

If  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king,  may  not  a  friar  speak 
to  one? 

King  Richard. 

I  have  had  a  year  of  prison-silence,  Robin, 
And  heed  him  not — the  vengeance  of  the  Church  ! 
Thou  shalt  pronounce  the  blessing  of  the  Church 
On  those  two  here,  Robin  and  Marian. 

Marian. 
He  is  but  hedge-priest.  Sir  King. 

King  Richard. 

And  thou  their  Queen. 
Our  rebel  Abbot  then  shall  join  your  hands, 
Or  lose  all  hope  of  pardon  from  us — yet 
Not  now,  not  now — with  after-dinner  grace. 
Nay,  by  the  dragon  of  St.  George,  we  shall 
Do  some  injustice,  if  you  hold  us  here 
Longer  from  our  own  venison.     Where  is  it  ? 
I  scent  it  in  the  green  leaves  of  the  wood. 

Marian. 
First,  king,  a  boon  ! 

King  Richard. 

Why  surely  ye  are  pardon'd. 
Even  this  brawler  of  harsh  truths — I  trust 

VOL.  \\.  2  E 


41 8  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Half  truths,  good  friar  :  ye  shall  v/ith  us  to  court. 
Then,  if  ye  cannot  breathe  but  woodland  air, 
Thou  Robin  shalt  be  ranger  of  this  forest, 
And  have  thy  fees,  and  break  the  law  no  more. 

Marian. 
It  is  not  that,  my  lord. 

King  Richard. 

Then  what,  my  lady  ? 

RCBIX. 

This  13  the  gala-day  of  thy  return. 

I  pray  thee  for  the  moment,  strike  the  bonds 

From  these  three  men,  and  let  them  dine  with  us, 

And  lie  with  us  among  the  flowers,  and  drink — 

Ay,  whether  it  be  gall  or  honey  to  'em — 

The  king's  good  health  in  ale  and  Malvoisie, 

King  Richard. 
By  Mahound  I  could  strive  with  Beelzebub  ! 
So  now  which  way  to  the  dinner? 

Marian. 

Past  the  bank 
Of  foxglove,  then  to  left  by  that  one  yew. 
You  see  the  darkness  thro'  the  lighter  leaf. 
But  look  !  who  comes? 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  4^9 

Enter  Sailor. 

Sailor. 
We  heard  Sir  Richard  Lea  was  here  with  Robin, 
O  good  Sir  Richard,  I  am  like  the  man 
In  Holy  Writ,  who  brought  his  talent  back ; 
For  tho'  we  touch'd  at  many  pirate  ports, 
We  ever  fail'd  to  light  upon  thy  son. 
Here  is  thy  gold  again.     I  am  sorry  for  it. 

Sir  Richard, 
The  gold — my  son— my  gold,  my  son,  the  land — 
Here  Abbot,  Sheriff— no— no,  Robin  Hood. 

Robin. 
Sir  Richard,  let  that  wait  till  we  have  dined. 
Are  all  our  guests  here  ? 

King  Richard. 

No — there's  yet  one  other : 
I  will  not  dine  without  him.     Come  from  out 

Enter  Walter  Lea. 

That  oak-tree  !     This  young  warrior  broke  his  prison 

And  join'd  my  banner  in  the  Holy  Land, 

And  cleft  the  Moslem  turban  at  my  side. 

My  masters,  welcome  gallant  Walter  Lea. 

Kiss  him,  Sir  Richard — kiss  him,  my  sweet  Marian. 


420  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

Marian. 

O  Walter,  Walter,  is  it  thou  indeed 
Whose  ransom  was  our  ruin,  whose  return 
Builds  up  our  house  again  ?     I  fear  I  dream. 
Here — give  me  one  sharp  pinch  upon  the  cheek 
That  I  may  feel  thou  art  no  phantom — yet 
Thou  art  tann'd  almost  beyond  my  knowing,  brother. 

[  They  embrace, 

Walter  Lea. 

But  thou  art  fair  as  ever,  my  sweet  sister. 


Art  thou  my  son  ? 


Sir  Richard. 

Walter  Lea. 
I  am,  good  father,  I  am. 


Sir  Richard. 

I  had  despair'd  of  thee — that  sent  me  crazed. 
Thou  art  worth  thy  weight  in  all  those  marks  of  gold, 
Yea.  and  the  weight  of  the  very  land  itself, 
Down  to  the  inmost  centre. 

Robin. 

Walter  Lea, 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  421 

Give  me  that  hand  which  fought  for  Richard  there. 
Embrace  me,  Marian,  and  thou,  good  Kate, 

\To  Kate  entering. 
Kiss  and  congratulate  me,  my  good  Kate. 

\_She  kisses  him. 

Little  John. 

Lo  now  !  lo  now  ! 

I  have  seen  thee  clasp  and  kiss  a  man  indeed, 

For  our  brave  Robin  is  a  man  indeed. 

Then  by  thine  own  account  thou  shouldst  be  mine. 

Kate. 
Well  then,  who  kisses  first? 

Little  John. 

Kiss  both  together. 
\They  kiss  each  other, 

Robin. 

Then  all  is  well.     In  this  full  tide  of  love, 

Wave  heralds  wave  :  thy  match  shall  follow  mine  {to 

Little  John). 
Would  there  were  more — a  hundred  lovers  more 
To  celebrate  this  advent  of  our  King  ' 
Our  forest  games  are  ended,  our  free  life, 
And  we  must  hence  to  the  King's  court.     I  trust 


422  THE  FORESTERS  act  iv 

We  shall  return  to  the  wood.     Meanwhile,  farewell 
Old  friends,  old  patriarch  oaks.     A  thousand  winters 
Will  strip  you  bare  as  death,  a  thousand  summers 
Robe  you  life-green  again.      You  seem,  as  it  were, 
Immortal,  and  we  mortal.     How  few  Junes 
Will  heat  our  pulses  quicker  !     How  few  frosts 
Will  chill  the  hearts  that  beat  for  Robin  Hood  ! 

Marian. 

And  yet  I  think  these  oaks  at  dawn  and  even, 

Or  in  the  balmy  breathings  of  the  niglit. 

Will  whisper  evermore  of  Robin  Hood. 

We  leave  but  happy  memories  to  the  forest. 

We  dealt  in  the  wild  justice  of  the  woods. 

All  those  poor  serfs  whom  we  have  served  will  bless 

us. 
All  those  pale  mouths  which  we  have  fed  will  praise 

us — 
All  widows  we  have  holpen  pray  for  us. 
Our  Lady's  blessed  shrines  throughout  the  land 
Be  all  the  richer  for  us.     You,  good  friar, 
You  Much,  you  Scarlet,  you  dear  Little  John, 
Your  names  will  cling  like  ivy  to  the  wood. 
And  here  perhaps  a  hundred  years  away 
Some  hunter  in  day-dreams  or  half  asleep 
Will  hear  our  arrows  whizzing  overhead, 
And  catch  the  winding  of  a  phantom  horn. 


SCENE  I  THE  FORESTERS  423 

Robin. 

And  surely  these  old  oaks  will  murmur  thee 
Marian  along  with  Robin.     I  am  most  happy — 
Art  thou  not  mine  ? — and  happy  that  our  King 
Is  here  again,  never  I  trust  to  roam 
So  far  again,  but  dwell  among  his  own. 
Strike  up  a  stave,  my  masters,  all  is  well. 


SONG  WHILE  THEY  DANCE  A  COUNTRY  DANCE. 

Nolu  the  king  is  home  again,  and  nevermore  to  7oavi 

again, 
No7U  the  king  is  home  again,  the  king  will  have  his 

own  again. 
Home  again,  home  again,  and  each  will  have  his  own 

again. 
All  the  birds  in  merry  Sherwood  sing  and  sing  him 

home  again. 


APPENDIX  AND  NOTES 


TO    THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED.  LORD  TENNYSON 


¥£h3  fork 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1908 

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Copyright,  igo8, 
By  the  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1908. 


KorfaooO  yrtBS 
8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Beiwicli  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


APPENDIX. 


UNPUBLISHED  SONNET. 

{Written  originally  as  a  Preface  to  "Beckei.") 

Old  ghosts  whose  day  was  done  ere  mine  began, 
If  earth  be  seen  from  your  conjectured  heaven, 
Ye  know  that  History  is  half-dream  —  ay  even 
The  man's  Hfe  in  the  letters  of  the  man. 
There  lies  the  letter,  but  it  is  not  he 
As  he  retires  into  himself  and  is  : 
Sender  and  sent-to  go  to  make  up  this, 
Their  offspring  of  this  union.     And  on  me 
Frown  not,  old  ghosts,  if  I  be  one  of  those 
Who  make  you  utter  things  you  did  not  say. 
And  mould  you  all  awry  and  mar  your  worth ; 
For  whatsoever  knows  us  truly,  knows 
That  none  can  tnily  write  his  single  day, 
And  none  can  write  it  for  him  upon  earth. 


427 


NOTES. 


NOTES   ON    BECKET. 

By  the  Editor. 

[In  1879  my  father  printed  the  first  proofs  of  his 
tragedy  of  Becket,  which  he  had  begun  in  December 
1876.  But  he  considered  that  the  time  was  not  ripe 
for  its  publication ;  and  this  therefore  was  deferred 
until  December  1884.  We  had  visited  Canterbury  in 
August  1877,  and  gone  over  each  separate  scene  of 
Becket's  martyrdom.  "Admirers  of  Becket,"  my  father 
notes,  "  will  find  that  Becket's  letters,  and  the  writings 
of  Herbert  of  Bosham,  Fitzstephen,  and  John  of  Salis- 
bury throw  great  hght  on  those  days.  Bishop  Lightfoot 
found  out  about  Rosamund  for  me." 

The  play  is  so  accurate  a  representation  of  the 
personages  and  of  the  time,  that  J.  R.  Green  said  that 
all  his  researches  into  the  annals  of  the  twelfth  century 
had  not  given  him  "so  vivid  a  conception  of  the 
character  of  Henry  H.  and  his  court  as  was  embodied 
in  Tennyson's  Beckett 

To  my  father  it  was  interesting  to  learn  the  impres- 
sion made  upon  Roman  Catholics  by  this  work.  He 
first  asked  the  opinion  of  his  neighbour  at  Freshwater, 
W.  G.  Ward.     He  could  not  have  asked  a  more  candid, 

431 


432  BECKET. 

truth-speaking  critic  than  this  "  most  generous  of  all 
Ultramontanes,"  who  was  deeply  versed  not  only  in  the 
spirit  and  doctrine  of  his  own  Church,  but  also  in  the 
modern  French  and  English  drama.  My  father  once 
said  of  Ward  when  speaking  to  a  friend  of  Roman 
Catholic  casuistry :  "  Well,  one  of  the  most  truthful 
men  I  ever  met  was  a  strict  Ultramontane :  he  was 
grotesquely  truthful."  They  thoroughly  understood  each 
other,  for  Ward  was  "full  of  fun  and  faith."  So  it  came 
to  pass  that  my  father  often  discussed  religion  and 
Roman  Catholicism  with  him  in  their  walks  together. 
He  once  said  to  Ward,  "  You  know  you  would  try  to 
get  me  put  in  prison  if  the  Pope  bid  you."  Ward 
replied,  "  The  Pope  would  never  tell  me  to  do  anything 
so  foolish." 

It  may  be  imagined  that  we  looked  forward  with 
some  anxiety  to  the  evening  when  Ward  had  promised 
to  be  at  Farringford  to  hear  Becket.  He  came,  as  it 
afterwards  appeared,  to  listen  patiently,  though  con- 
vinced "  that  the  whole  play  would  be  out  of  his  line." 
At  the  end  of  the  play  he  broke  out  into  enthusiastic 
praise.  "  Dear  me  !  I  did  not  expect  to  enjoy  it  at  all. 
It  is  splendid  !  How  wonderfully  you  have  brought  out 
the  phases  of  his  character  as  Chancellor  and  Arch- 
bishop !     Where  did  you  get  it  all?  " 

Struggle  for  power  under  one  guise  or  another  has 
doubtless  been  among  the  most  fruitful  sources  of  theme 
for  tragedy.  During  many  centuries,  as  we  know, 
"spiritual  power,"  clothed  in  earthly  panoply,  seemed 
to  most  men  to  be  the  one  embodiment  of  the  Divine 
Power.     What  struck  Ward  in  my  father's  play  was  the 


NOTES.  433 

clear  and  impressive  manner  in  which  he  had  brought 
out  Becket's  feeling  that  in  accepting  the  Archbishopric 
he  had  changed  masters,  that  he  was  not  simply 
advanced  to  a  higher  service  of  the  same  liege  lord, 
but  that  he  had  changed  his  former  lord  paramount, 
whose  fiery  self-will  made  havoc  of  his  fine  intellect, 
for  one  of  higher  degree ;  and  had  become  a  power 
distinct  from  and  it  might  be  antagonistic  to  the  King. 
Thus  Becket  says,  still  loving  his  old  friend  : 

The  worldly  bond  between  us  is  dissolved, 
Not  yet  the  love  :  can  I  be  under  him 
As  Chancellor?  as  Archbishop  over  him? 

My  father's  view  of  Becket  was  as  follows  :  Becket 
was  a  really  great  and  impulsive  man,  with  a  firm  sense 
of  duty,  and,  when  he  renounced  the  world,  looked 
upon  himself  as  the  head  of  that  Church  which  was 
the  people's  "  tower  of  strength,  their  bulwark  against 
throne  and  baronage."  This  idea  so  far  wrought  in  his 
dominant  nature  as  to  betray  him  into  many  rash  acts ; 
and  later  he  lost  himself  in  the  idea.  His  enthusiasm 
reached  a  spiritual  ecstasy  which  carries  the  historian 
along  with  it ;  and  his  humanity  and  abiding  tenderness 
for  the  poor,  the  weak  and  the  unprotected,  heighten 
the  impression  so  much  as  to  make  the  poet  feel 
passionately  the  wronged  Rosamund's  reverential  devo- 
tion for  him  (most  touchingly  rendered  by  Ellen  Terry), 
when  she  kneels  praying  over  his  body  in  Canterbury 
Cathedral.^ 

1  In  the  play  Rosamund  is  the  king's  wife  by  a  left-handed  or  mor- 
ganatic marriage  (see  Miss  Strickland's  Lives  of  Queens  of  England, 
vol.  i.). 

VOL.  VI.  2F 


434  BECKET. 

As  a  stage  tragedy  (adapted  by  Irving)  Irving  has  told 
us  that  Becket  is  one  of  the  three  most  successfiil  plays 
produced  by  him  at  the  Lyceum,  Palgrave  has  ob- 
served that  Becket  has  two  excellent  characteristics  of 
the  old  Greek  drama,  that  of  bringing  the  four  protago- 
nists prominently  throughout  before  the  audience  :  and 
that  of  introducing  the  crisis  of  the  tragedy  in  a  scene 
of  first-rate  comedy.  Irving's  arrangement  has  been 
criticised  as  too  episodical;  but  the  thread  of  human 
interest  remains  strong  enough  for  its  purpose,  as 
from  first  to  last  it  holds  the  audience  in  an  attitude  of 
rapt  attention.  Assuredly  Irving's  interpretation  of  the 
many-sided,  many-mooded,  statesman-soldier-saint  was 
as  vivid  and  as  subtle  a  piece  of  acting  as  has  been  seen 
in  our  day. 

He  said  truly  that  one  of  the  chief  keynotes  of  the 
character  is  to  be  found  in  the  following  lines,  which  he 
always  gave  with  an  indescribable  tenderness,  as  if 
looking  back  to  and  recalling  the  daydream  of  his  youth. 

Becket.     There  was  a  little  fair-hair'd  Norman  maid, 
Lived  in  my  mother's  house  :  if  Rosamund  is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports  her  —  she 
Was  the  world's  lily. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Ay,  and  what  of  her? 

Becket.     She  died  of  leprosy. 

John  of  Salisbury.  I  know  not  why 

You  call  these  old  things  back  again,  my  lord. 

Becket.  The  drowning  man,  they  say,  remembers  all 
The  chances  of  his  life,  just  ere  he  dies. 

In    1S79    Irving   refused  the   play:    but   in    1891    he 


NOTES.  435 

asked  leave  to  produce  it,  holding  that  the  taste  of  the 
theatre-going  public  had  changed  in  the  interval,  and 
that  it  was  now  likely  to  be  a  success  on  the  stage. 

He  writes  to  me  (1893)  : 

We  have  passed  the  fiftieth  performance  of  Becket, 
which  is  in  the  heyday  of  its  success.  I  think  that  I  may, 
without  hereafter  being  credited  with  any  inferior  motive, 
give  again  the  opinion  which  I  previously  expressed  to 
your  loved  and  honoured  father.  To  me  Becket  is  a  very 
noble  play,  with  something  of  that  lofty  feeling  and  that 
far-reaching  influence,  which  belong  to  a  "passion  play." 
There  are  in  it  moments  of  passion  and  pathos  which  are 
the  aim  and  end  of  dramatic  art,  and  which,  when  they 
exist,  atone  to  an  audience  for  the  endurance  of  long  acts. 
Some  of  the  scenes  and  passages,  especially  in  the  last  act, 
are  full  of  sublime  feeling,  and  are  with  regard  to  both 
their  dramatic  effectiveness  and  their  poetic  beauty  as  fine 
as  anything  in  our  language.  I  know  that  such  a  play  has 
an  ennobling  influence  on  both  the  audience  who  see  it 
and  the  actors  who  play  in  it. 

Some  of  the  last  lines  which  my  father  ever  wrote 
are  at  the  end  of  the  Northampton  scene,  an  anthem- 
speech  written  for  Irving  : 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  is  in  the  voice  of  the  people. 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  is  on  the  warring  flood, 

And  He  will  lead  His  people  into  peace  ! 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  will  shake  the  wilderness, 

The  barren  wilderness  of  unbeUef ! 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  will  break  the  cedar-trees. 

The  Kings  and  Rulers  that  have  closed  their  ears 


436  BECKET. 

Against  the  Voice,  and  at  their  hour  of  doom 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  will  hush  the  hounds  of  Hell 

In  everlasting  silence. 

Becket  was  produced  at  the  Lyceum  Feb.  6th,  1893, 
the  parts  of  Becket  and  Rosamund  being  played  by 
Irving  and  Ellen  Terry.  It  had  a  long  run,  and  was 
afterwards  frequently  played  in  the  provinces  and 
America.  Irving  wrote  on  the  outside  of  his  copy  of 
Becket,  "A  finer  play  than  King  John.''''  The  incidental 
music  was  written  by  Sir  Charles  Stanford.  His  identifi- 
cation of  Becket  with  the  Gregorian  melody  "  Telluris 
ingens  conditor  "  is  particularly  impressive. 

/.  5.  (Prologue.)  Becket  as  chess-player.  John  of 
Salisbury  and  Fitzstephen  describe  him  as  an 
accomplished  chess-player,  a  master  in  hunting 
and  falconry,  and  other  manly  exercises. 

/.  9.  lines  6,  7.   (Prologue.) 

nor  my  confessor  yet. 
I  woidld  to  God  thou  wert. 

Archbishop  Theobald  writes  to  Becket 
(John  of  Salisbury,  Ep.  78)  :  "  It  sounds  in 
the  ears  and  mouths  of  people  that  you  and 
the  king  are  one  heart  and  soul."  He  helped 
Henry  to  improve  the  state  of  the  country, 
and  to  lighten  many  of  the  oppressive  laws 
and  enactments  (Lingard,  vol.  ii.). 

/.  9.  line  15.  (Prologue.)  A  dish- designer.  When 
Becket  went  to  Paris,  all  the  French  v/ere 
astonished  at  his  sumptuous  living.     One  dish 


NOTES.  437 

of   eels   alone   was    said    to    have    cost    loo 
shillings  (Fitzstephen,  197,  8,  9), 

/.  28.  (Act  I.  Sc.  i.)  Chamber  barely  furnished.  John 
of  Salisbury  says,  ''  Consecratus  autem  statim 
veterem  exuit  hominem,  cilicium  et  monachum 
induit." 

/.  30.  line  I.  (Act  i.  Sc.  i.)  scutage.  The  acceptance 
of  a  money  compensation  for  military  service 
dates  from  this  time  ( 1 159).  See  Freeman's 
Norman  Conquest. 

p.  49.  (Act  I.  Sc.  iii.)  In  this  great  scene  at  North- 
ampton (J.  R.  Green  writes)  "his  life  was 
said  to  be  in  danger,  and  all  urged  him  to 
submit.  But  in  the  presence  of  danger  the 
courage  of  the  man  rose  to  its  full  height. 
Grasping  his  archiepiscopal  cross  he  entered 
the  royal  court,  forbade  the  nobles  to  con- 
demn him,  and  appealed  to  the  Papal  See. 
Shouts  of  '  Traitor  !  traitor  ! '  followed  him 
as  he  retired.  The  Primate  turned  fiercely 
at  the  word :  '  Were  I  a  knight,'  he  retorted, 
'  my  sword  should  answer  that  foul  taunt.'  "  — 
Short  History  of  the  English  People,  p.  108. 

/.  52.  (Act  I.  Sc.  iii.)  "He  (Henry  H.)  wished  to  put 
an  end  to  the  disgraceful  state  of  things  which 
had  arisen,  by  subjecting  clerical  offenders 
against  the  public  peace  to  the  same  jurisdic- 
tion with  the  criminals,  and,  with  a  view  to 
this,  he  now  required  that  clerks  accused  of 


438  BECKET. 

any  outrage  should  be  tried  in  his  own  courts  ; 
that,  on  conviction  or  confession,  they  should 
be  degraded  by  the  Church,  and  that  they 
then  should  be  remanded  to  the  secular  offices 
for  the  execution  of  the  sentence  which  had 
been  passed  upon  them.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  Archbishop,  although  unsupported  by  his 
brethren  in  general,  who  dreaded  a  risk  of  a 
breach  with  the  State  while  the  Church  was 
divided  by  a  schism,  considered  himself  bound 
to  offer  the  most  strenuous  resistance  to  a 
proposal  which  tended  to  lessen  the  privileges 
of  the  hierarchy ;  and  on  this  quarrel  the 
whole  of  the  subsequent  history  turned." 
{Becket,  by  Canon  Robertson,  pp.  76,  77.) 

/.  60.  line  5.    (Act  i.  Sc.  iii.) 

False  to  myself — it  is  the  will  of  God. 

"It  is  the  Lord's  will  that  I  perjure  myself" 
(Foliot,  V.  271,  2). 

/.  68.  line  13.  (Act  i.  Sc.  iii.) 

A  zvorldly  folloiver  of  the  worldly  strong. 

Foliot  fasted  much,  and  was  famous  for  his 
learning,  for  his  subtle  trickery,  and  flattery  of 
persons  in  high  station.  When  he  was  plotting 
against  Becket,  he  is  said  to  have  heard  "  an 
exceeding  terrible  voice : 

O  Gilberte  Foliot 
Dum  resolvis  tot  et  tot, 
Deus  tuus  est  Ashtaroth." 

(Roger  Wendover,  ii.  323.) 


NOTES.  439 

/.  71.  line  9.  (Act  i.  Sc.  iii.)  Hence,  Satan  !  See  Alan 
of  Tewkesbury,  i.  347. 

/.  76.    lines  8,  9.    (Act  i.  Sc.  iv.) 

But  I  that  threw  the  mightiest  knight  of  France, 
Sir  Engelram  de  Trie. 

In  1 159  Becket,  in  cuirass  and  helmet, 
marched  at  the  head  of  his  troops  against  the 
County  of  Toulouse,  which  had  passed  to 
Henry  on  his  marriage  with  Eleanor,  and  there 
he  unhorsed  in  single  combat  Sir  Engelram 
de  Trie. 

/.  77.   line  3.    (Act  i.  Sc.  iv.) 

Deal  gently  with  the  young  man  Absalom. 

(Fitzstephen,  i.  236;  Foliot,  iii.   280;  Roger 
of  Hoveden,  284.) 

/.  81.  (Act  I.  Sc.  iv.)  For  Becket's  entertainment  of 
the  poor  and  his  washing  of  their  feet  see 
Fitzstephen,  204 ;  John  of  Salisbury,  324 ; 
Herbert  of  Bosham,  24.  My  father  regretted 
the  excision  of  this  scene  and  of  his  Walter 
Map  scenes  from  the  Acting  Edition. 

p.  84.  line  13.  (Act  i.  Sc.  iv.)  /  must  fly  to  France 
to-night.  Not  long  after  he  landed  in  France, 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Brother  Christian, 
a  boy,  who  was  standing  by  the  roadside  with 
a  hawk  on  his  wrist,  was  attracted  by  the 
evident  pleasure  with  which  the  stranger  eyed 
his  bird,  and  cried  out,  "  Here  goes  the  Arch- 
bishop."     At  Gravelines  the  landlord  of  the 


440  BECKET. 

inn  where  he  spent  the  night  had  longer  time 
for  observation,  and  recognised  him,  as 
Herbert  of  Bosham  says,  "  by  his  remarkably 
tall  figure,  his  high  forehead,  the  stern  expres- 
sion of  his  beautiful  countenance,  and,  above 
all,  by  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  his  hands" 
(Hurrell  Froude's  Remains,  vol.  iv.  p.  91). 

/.  94.    hues  2,  3.   (Act  II.  Sc.  i.) 

I  have  sent  his  folk, 
His  kin,  all  his  belongings  overseas. 

Edward  Grim  of  Cambridge  writes  :  "  Those 
of  whom  God  especially  styles  Himself  the 
Father  and  Judge — orphans,  widows,  children 
altogether  innocent,  and  unknowing  of  any 
discord,  aged  men,  women  with  their  Httle 
ones  hanging  at  their  breasts,  clerks,  and  lay 
folk  of  whatever  age  and  sex,  of  the  Arch- 
bishop's kindred,  and  some  of  his  friends, 
were  seized  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  merci- 
lessly transported  beyond  sea,  after  having 
been  obliged  to  swear  that  they  would  seek 
him  out"  (Grim,  1-51). 

/.  no.  Hne  5.  (Act  11.  Sc.  ii.)  Saving  God's  honour. 
Becket  substituted  this  phrase  in  place  of 
"  salvo  ordine  nostro,"  which  had  been  objected 
to  by  Henry.  The  King  would  not  allow 
any  difference,  and  burst  into  uncontrollable 
fury  (John  of  Salisbury,  ii).  Becket  wrote 
to  the  Pope  after  Montmirail :  "  We  answered 
...  we  were  prepared  to  yield  him  (the  king) 


NOTES.  441 

every  service,  even  more  than  our  predecessors 
had  done  saving  my  order ;  but  that  new 
obligations,  unbeknown  to  the  Church,  and 
such  as  my  predecessors  were  never  bound 
by,  ought  not  to  be  undertaken  by  us  :  first, 
because  it  was  bad  as  a  precedent ;  secondly, 
because,  when  in  the  city  of  Sens,  your 
Holiness'  self  absolved  me  from  the  observ- 
ance of  these  Usages,  hateful  to  God  and  to 
the  Church,  and  from  the  pledge  which  force 
and  fear  had  extorted  from  me  in  a  special 
manner  J  and  after  a  grave  rebuke,  which,  by 
God's  grace,  shall  never  pass  from  my  mind, 
prohibited  me  from  ever  again  obliging  myself 
to  any  one  on  a  like  cause  except  saving  God's 
honour  and  my  order.  You  added  too,  if 
you  are  pleased  to  recollect,  that  not  even  to 
save  his  life  should  a  Bishop  oblige  himself, 
saving  God's  honour  and  his  order  "  (Hurrell 
Froude's  Remains,  vol.  iv.  p.  3S9). 

/.  113.  line  16.  (Act  11.  Sc.  ii.)  let  a  stranger  spoil  his 
heritage.     Cf.  Psalm  cix. 

p.  115.  line  3  ff.  (Act  11.  Sc.  ii.)  My  father's  note  is: 
"The  description  of  Bosham  was  made  as  we 
(my  son  Hallam  and  I)  saw  the  little  fishing 
village  on  a  summer's  day." 

/.   143.  line  4.   (Act  iii.  Sc.  iii.) 

The  daughter  of  Zion  lies  beside  the  way. 
Lamentations  i-ii. 


442  BECKET. 

p.  143.  lines  3,  4.   (Act  in.  Sc.  iii.) 

The  spouse  of  the  Great  King,  thy  king,  hath 

fallen — 
The  daughter  of  Zion  lies  beside  the  way. 

See  Becket's  Ep.  i.  63,  in  Hurrell  Froude's 
Remains,  iv.  139.  The  Archbishop  to  the 
King  of  England  :  "  I  entreat  you,  O  my  Lord, 
to  bear  with  me  for  a  while  that  by  the  grace 
of  God  I  may  disburden  my  conscience,  to 
the  benefit  of  my  soul.  .  .  .  My  Lord,  the 
daughter  of  Zion  is  held  captive  in  thy 
kingdom.  The  spouse  of  the  Great  King  is 
oppressed  by  her  enemies,  afflicted  by  those 
who  ought  most  to  honour  her,  and  especially 
by  you." 

See,  too,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to 
the  Pope  (after  Fr^teval),  Hurrell  Froude's 
Remains,  iv.  503  :  "  God  hath  looked  with  an 
eye  of  pity  on  His  Church,  and  changed  at 
length  her  sorrow  into  joy.  The  King  of 
England,  as  soon  as  he  had  received  your 
last  letters,  and  understood  that  you  would 
no  longer  spare  him,  even  as  you  had  not 
spared  the  Emperor  Frederic,  but  would  lay 
his  territories  under  an  Interdict,  forthwith 
made  peace  with  us,  to  the  honour  of  God, 
as  we  would  hope,  and  the  great  advantage  of 
His  Church.  The  Usages  which  were  once 
so  insisted  upon,  he  did  not  even  allude  to. 
He  exacted  no  oath  of  us,  or  any  belonging 
to   us.     He   restored    to   us   the   possessions 


NOTES.  443 

which  we  had  been  deprived  of,  according  to 
the  enumeration  of  them  in  our  own  schedule  ; 
and,  with  them,  peace  and  security,  and  a 
return  from  our  exile  to  all  our  companions ; 
and  even  promised  the  kiss,  if  we  wished  to 
press  him  so  far.  In  short  he  gave  way  in 
everything,  insomuch  that  some  called  him 
perjured,  who  had  heard  him  swear  that  he 
would  not  admit  us  to  the  kiss  that  day." 

/.  144.  line  8.  (Act  iii.  Sc.  iii.) 

And  thou  shalt  crown  my  Henry  o'er  again. 
Upon  this  Becket  dismounted  and  prepared 
to  throw  himself  at  Henry's  feet,  but  Henry 
also  dismounted,  and  embraced  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  held  his  stirrup  for  him  in  order 
that  he  might  remount. 

p.  155.  (Act  IV.  Sc.  ii.)  "That  Rosamund  was  not 
killed  may  be  ascertained  by  the  charters  ..." 
(see  vol.  i.  p.  213,  Miss  Strickland's  Lives  of 
Queens  of  England^. 

p.  188.  line  17.  (Act  v.  Sc.  ii.)  uxor  paupens  Ibyci 
(Horace,  Carm.  iii.  xv.  i). 

/.  191.  line  2.  (Act.  v.  Sc.  ii.)  From  ''On  a  Tuesday 
was  I  born  "  to  the  end  of  the  play  is  founded 
on  the  graphic  accounts  by  Fitzstephen,  and 
Grim,  the  monk  of  Cambridge,  who  was  with 
Becket  in  Scenes  ii.  and  iii. 

p.  199.  line  12.  (Act  v.  Sc.  ii.)  \_lVhen  God  makes  up 
his  jewels.     Malachi  iii.  17. — Ed.] 


APPENDIX  TO  NOTES  ON  BECKET. 

Letter  from  The  Right  Honotirable  J.  Bryce. 

As  I  have  been  abroad  for  some  time  it  was  only  a  little 
while  ago  that  I  obtained  and  read  your  Becket.  Will 
you,  since  you  were  so  kind  as  to  read  me  some  of  it  last 
July,  let  me  tell  you  how  much  enjoyment  and  light  it  has 
given  me  ?  Impressive  as  were  the  parts  read,  it  impresses 
one  incomparably  more  when  studied  as  a  whole.  One 
cannot  imagine  a  more  vivid,  a  more  perfectly  faithful 
picture  than  it  gives  both  of  Henry  and  of  Thomas.  Truth 
in  history  is  naturally  truth  in  poetry;  but  you  have  made 
the  characters  of  the  two  men  shine  out  in  a  way  which, 
while  it  never  deviates  from  the  impression  history  gives  of 
them,  goes  beyond  and  perfects  history.  This  is  eminently 
conspicuous  in  the  way  their  relations  to  one  another  are 
traced ;  and  in  the  delineation  of  the  influence  on  Thomas 
of  the  conception  of  the  Church,  blending  with  his  own 
haughty  spirit  and  sanctifying  it  to  his  own  conscience. 
There  is  not,  it  seems  to  me,  anything  in  modern  poetry 
which  helps  us  to  realise,  as  your  drama  does,  the  sort  of 
power  the  Church  exerted  on  her  ministers :  and  this  is  the 
central  fact  of  the  earlier  middle  ages.  I  wish  you  were 
writing  a  play  on  Hildebrand  also.  Venturing  to  say  this 
to    you    from   the   point  of   view  of   a   student    of  history, 

444 


NO  TES.  445 

I  scarcely  presume  to  speak  of  the  drama  on  its  more 
purely  literary  side,  how  full  of  strength  and  beauty  and 
delicacy  it  is,  because  you  must  have  heard  this  often  already 
from  more  competent  critics. 


BECKET.i 
By  the  late  Sir  Richard  Jebb. 

It  is  almost  impossible  that  Tennyson  should  surpass 
himself;  the  poet  of  In  Memoriam,  of  Maud,  and 
of  the  Idylls  has  no  rival  to  fear  in  the  author  of 
Queen  Mary,  of  Harold,  and  now  of  Becket.  It  is 
almost  equally  incredible  that  he  should  fall  appreciably 
below  himself.  We  shall  not  attempt,  therefore,  to 
compare  Becket  with  its  dramatic  predecessors,  still  less 
shall  we  attempt  to  determine  Tennyson's  relative 
position  in  the  dramatic  literature  of  his  country.  Such 
judgments  need  time  and  reflection  ;  in  their  final  shape 
they  can  hardly,  perhaps,  be  pronounced  by  contem- 
poraries at  all.  The  great  business  of  the  critic,  says 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  somewhere,  is  to  get  himself  out  of 
the  way,  and  let  humanity  decide.  If  ever  that  maxim 
is  worthy  of  observation,  it  is  when  a  great  poet  in  his 
maturity  gives  to  the  world  a  work  so  important  as 
Becket. 

Tennyson  is  no  antiquarian  dramatist.  Like  Shake- 
speare, he  takes  a  broad  and  familiar  historical  outline, 
and  uses  it  for  a  dramatic  purpose.  His  object  is  to 
write   a   play,   not    to    rewrite   history.       There   is   no 

1  From  The  Times,  December  lo,  1884. 


446  BECKET. 

subtle  attempt  to  see  new  lights  in  Henry's  character 
or  Backet's  policy.  As  Shakespeare  drew  his  material 
sometimes  from  Holinshed,  sometimes  from  North's 
Plutarch,  and  so  forth,  so  Tennyson,  though  doubt- 
less his  studies  have  in  reality  gone  far  deeper,  might 
almost  seem  to  have  sought  his  material  in  the  few 
pages  of  Green's  Short  History  of  the  English  People 
which  describe  the  characters  and  relations  of  Henry 
and  Becket.  But  there  is,  on  the  other  hand,  this 
great  difference  between  Shakespeare's  "  histories  "  and 
Tennyson's  latest  historical  play.  Shakespeare's  plays 
were  written  for  the  stage,  and  were  meant  to  be  acted, 
Becket  is  not,  in  Tennyson's  judgment — to  judge  from  the 
short  dedicatory  letter  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  prefixed 
to  the  play — adapted  in  its  published  form  for  actual 
representation.     "  My  dear  Selborne,"  so  runs  the  letter, 

To  you,  the  honoured  Chancellor  of  our  own  day,  I 
dedicate  this  dramatic  memorial  of  your  great  predecessor; 
— which,  altho'  not  intended  in  its  present  form  to  meet 
the  exigencies  of  our  modern  theatre,  has  nevertheless — 
for  so  you  have  assured  me — won  your  approbation.  Ever 
yours,  Tennyson. 

We  find  it  easier  to  agree  with  the  approbation  of 
the  Chancellor  than  with  the  judgment  of  the  Laureate. 
Becket  may  not  be  intended  in  its  published  form  to  meet 
the  exigencies  of  the  modern  stage — that  may  be  a 
merit  or  a  defect  according  to  the  point  of  view — but  it 
is  a  fine  poem  and  a  stirring  drama,  and  perhaps,  in 
expressing  his  intentions  in  regard  to  it,  Tennyson 
has  rather  judged   the   capacities   and  opportunities  of 


NOTES.  447 

the  modern  stage  than  the  merits  and  capabilities  of  his 
own  performance. 

The  general  dramatic  outline  of  Becket  is,  as  we  have 
indicated,  determined  by  the  familiar  facts  of  history. 
The  murder  of  the  great  Prelate  in  Canterbury  Cathedral 
furnishes  the  necessary  catastrophe,  and  the  general 
relations  of  Becket  with  his  King  provide  an  effective 
introduction  thereto.  The  web  of  tragical  circumstance 
is  provided  by  the  skilful  interweaving — for  which,  we 
presume,  the  poet  himself  is  responsible — of  the  King's 
love  for  Rosamund  with  the  jealousy  of  Eleanor.  The 
play  is  in  five  Acts,  according  to  precedent,  but  a  Pro- 
logue is  prefixed  in  which  the  action  is  foreshadowed. 
In  our  judgment,  this  Prologue  contains  some  of  the 
most  powerful  writing  in  the  play.  It  opens  in 
Normandy,  where  the  King  is  found  playing  a  game  of 
chess  with  Becket  as  he  receives  the  news  of  Theobald's 
— Becket's  predecessor's — illness  and  impending  death. 
At  first,  almost  in  jest,  but  afterwards  with  determined 
purpose,  the  King  proposes  that  Becket  should  be  the 
successor  of  the  dying  Primate.  We  quote  the  opening 
scene    at    some    length.     Henry  and    Becket    are    at 

chess : — 

Henry. 

So  then  our  good  Archbishop  Theobald 

Lies  dying. 

Becket. 

I  am  grieved  to  know  as  much. 

Henry. 
But  we  must  have  a  mightier  man  than  he 
For  his  successor. 


448  BECKET. 

Becket. 
Have  you  thought  of  one? 

Henry. 
A  cleric  lately  poisoned  his  own  mother, 
And  being  brought  before  the  courts  of  the  Church, 
They  but  degraded  him.     I  hope  they  whipt  him. 
I  would  have  hang'd  him. 

Becket. 

It  is  your  move. 

Henry. 

Well — there.     \_Moves. 
The  Church  in  the  pell-mell  of  Stephen's  time 
Hath  climb'd  the  throne  and  almost  clutch'd  the  crown ; 
But  by  the  royal  customs  of  our  realm 
The  Church  should  hold  her  baronies  of  me, 
Like  other  lords  amenable  to  law. 
I'll  have  them  written  down  and  made  the  law. 

Becket. 
My  liege,  I  move  my  bishop. 

Henry. 

And  if  I  live, 
No  man  without  my  leave  shall  excommunicate 
My  tenants  or  my  household. 

Becket. 

Look  to  your  king. 

Henry. 
No  man  without  my  leave  shall  cross  the  seas 
To  set  the  Pope  against  me — I  pray  your  pardon. 


NOTES.  449 

Becket. 
Well — will  you  move? 

Henry. 

There.  \_Moves. 

Becket. 

Check — you  move  so  wildly. 

Henry. 
There,  then  !  \Moz>es. 

Becket. 

Why — there  then,  for  you  see  my  bishop 
Hath  brought  your  king  to  a  standstill.     You  are  beaten. 

Henry  (kicks  over  the  board). 

Why,  there  then — down  go  bishop  and  king  together. 
I  loathe  being  beaten ;  had  I  fixt  my  fancy 
Upon  the  game  I  should  have  beaten  thee, 
But  that  was  vagabond. 

Becket. 

Where,  my  liege?     With  Phryne, 
Or  Lais,  or  thy  Rosamund,  or  another? 

Henry. 

My  Rosamund  is  no  Lais,  Thomas  Becket ; 
And  yet  she  plagues  me  too — no  fault  in  her — • 
But  that  I  fear  the  Queen  would  have  her  life. 

Becket. 

Put  her  away,  put  her  away,  my  liege  ! 

Put  her  away  into  a  nunnery! 

Safe  enough  there  from  her  to  whom  thou  art  bound 

VOL.   VI.  2G 


450  BECKET. 

By  Holy  Church.     And  wherefore  should  she  seek 
The  life  of  Rosamund  Clifford  more 
Than  that  of  other  paramours  of  thine? 

Henry. 
How  dost  thou  know  I  am  not  wedded  to  her? 

Becket. 

How  should  I  know  ? 

Henry. 

That  is  my  secret,  Thomas. 

Becket. 
State  secrets  should  be  patent  to  the  statesman 
Who  serves  and  loves  his  king,  and  whom  the  king 
Loves  not  as  statesman,  but  true  lover  and  friend. 

Henry. 

Come,  come,  thou  art  but  deacon,  not  yet  bishop, 
No,  nor  archbishop,  nor  my  confessor  yet. 
I  would  to  God  thou  wert,  for  I  should  find 
An  easy  father  confessor  in  thee. 

Becket. 

St.  Denis,  that  thou  shouldst  not.     I  should  beat 
Thy  kingship  as  my  bishop  hath  beaten  it. 

Henry. 
Hell  take  thy  bishop  then,  and  my  kingship  too  ! 

Henry  then  confides  to  Becket  his  plans  for  the 
seclusion  of  Rosamund,  bespeaking  the  good  offices 
of    his    favourite   in   screening   her   from    the   jealousy 


NOTES.  451 

of  the  Queen,  and  afterwards  passes  to  the  question 
of  Theobald's  successor.  Becket  deprecates  his  own 
nomination,  and  shows,  by  a  variety  of  hints  and  signs, 
that  as  Archbishop  he  would  further  the  King's  wishes 
and  designs  only  so  far  as  he  might  do  so,  to  borrow 
the  watchword  of  his  Primacy,  while  "  saving  the 
honour  of  his  order."  Their  dialogue  is  interrupted 
by  the  entry  of  Queen  Eleanor,  accompanied  by  Sir 
Reginald  Fitzurse,  one  of  the  dispossessed  barons,  who, 
according  to  the  scheme  of  the  play,  had  formerly 
aspired  to  the  love  of  Rosamund  and  been  slighted  by 
her.  The  Queen  sees  on  the  table  the  plan  of 
Rosamund's  bower,  which  Henry  had  just  been  explain- 
ing to  Becket.  This  provokes  her  jealous  and  whimsical 
temper,  which  finds  expression  in  the  following  power- 
ful scene : — 

Eleanor. 

Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done ; 

Over  and  gone  with  the  roses. 
And  over  and  gone  with  the  sun. 

Here  ;  but  our  sun  in  Aquitaine  lasts  longer.  I  would  I 
were  in  Aquitaine  again — your  north  chills  me. 

Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
And  never  a  flower  at  the  close ; 

Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
And  winter  again  and  the  snows. 

That  was  not  the  way  I  ended  it  first — but  unsymmetri- 
cally,  preposterously,  illogically,  out  of  passion,  without  art 
— like  a  song  of  the  people.     Will   you  have  it  ?     The  last 


452  BECKET, 

Parthian  shaft  of  a  forlorn  Cupid  at  the  King's  left  breast, 
and  all  left-handedness  and  under-handedness. 

And  never  a  flower  at  the  close, 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
Not  over  and  gone  with  the  rose. 

True,  one  rose  will  out-blossom  the  rest,  one  rose  in  a 
bower.  I  speak  after  my  fancies,  for  I  am  a  Troubadour, 
you  know,  and  won  the  violet  at  Toulouse ;  but  my  voice 
is  harsh  here,  not  in  tune,  a  nightingale  out  of  season ;  for 
marriage,  rose  or  no  rose,  has  killed  the  golden  violet. 

Becket. 
Madam,  you  do  ill  to  scorn  wedded  love. 

Eleanor. 

So  I  do.  Louis  of  France  loved  me,  and  I  dreamed  that 
I  loved  Louis  of  France :  and  I  loved  Henry  of  England, 
and  Henry  of  England  dreamed  that  he  loved  me ;  but 
the  marriage-garland  withers  even  with  the  putting  on,  tlie 
bright  link  rusts  with  the  breath  of  the  first  after-marriage 
kiss,  the  harvest  moon  is  the  ripening  of  the  harvest,  and 
the  honeymoon  is  the  gall  of  love ;  he  dies  of  his  honey- 
moon.    I    could   pity  this   poor  world  myself  that  it  is  no 

better  ordered. 

Henry. 

Dead,  is  he,  my  Queen?  What,  altogether?  Let  me 
swear  nay  to  that  by  this  cross  on  thy  neck.  God's  eyes  ! 
what  a  lovely  cross!  what  jewels  ! 

Eleanor. 
Doth  it  please  you?     Take  it  and  wear  it  on  that  hard 
heart  of  yours — there.  {Gives  it  to  him. 


NOTES.  453 

Henry  {puts  it  on). 

On  this  left  breast  before  so  hard  a  heart, 
To  hide  the  scar  left  by  thy  Parthian  dart. 

Eleanor. 

Has  my  simple  song  set  you  jingling?  Nay,  if  I  took 
and  translated  that  hard  heart  into  our  Proven9al  facilities, 
I  could  so  play  about  it  with  the  rhyme 

Henry. 

That  the  heart  were  lost  in  the  rhyme  and  the  matter 
in  the  metre.  May  we  not  pray  you,  madam,  to  spare  us 
the  hardness  of  your  facility  ? 

Eleanor. 

The  wells  of  Castaly  are  not  wasted  upon  the  desert. 
We  did  but  jest. 

Henry. 

There's  no  jest  on  the  brows  of  Herbert  there.  What  is 
it,  Herbert? 

Enter  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Herbert. 
My  liege,  the  good  Archbishop  is  no  more. 

Henry. 


Peace  to  his  soul ! 


Herbert. 


I  left  him  with  peace  on  his  face — that  sweet  other- 
world  smile,  which  will  be  reflected  in  the  spiritual  body 
among  the  angels.  But  he  longed  much  to  see  your 
Grace  and  the  Chancellor  ere  he  past,  and  his  last  words 


454  BECKET. 

were  a  commendation  of  Thomas  Becket  to  your  Grace  as 
his  successor  in  the  archbishopric. 

Henry. 
Ha,  Becket !  thou  rememberest  our  talk  ? 

Becket. 
My  heart  is  full  of  tears — I  have  no  answer. 

Henry. 
Well,  well,  old  men  must  die,  or  the  world  would  grow 
mouldy,  would  only  breed  the  past  again.  Come  to  me 
to-morrow.  Thou  hast  but  to  hold  out  thy  hand.  Mean- 
while the  revenues  are  mine.  A-hawking,  a-hawking  !  If 
I  sit,  I  grow  fat.  \Leaps  over  the  table,  a7id  exit. 

The  Prologue  closes  with  a  conversation  between 
Eleanor  and  Fitzurse,  in  which  the  Queen  urges  the 
latter  to  seek  out  Rosamund's  retreat,  and  to  "  make 
her  as  hateful  to  herself  and  to  the  King  as  she  is  to 
me."  In  the  First  Act,  Becket  is  already  Archbishop, 
and  begins  to  disclose  the  change  of  his  relations 
towards  the  King,  which  his  new  position,  aided  by  his 
temperament,  prone  to  ecclesiastical  domination,  forces 
upon  him.  "  Thou  art  the  man,"  says  Herbert  of 
Bosham,  his  friend,  "  be  thou  a  mightier  Anselm." 
To  which  Becket  replies  : 

I  do  believe  thee,  then.     I  am  the  man. 

And  yet  I  seem  appalPd — on  such  a  sudden 

At  such  an  eagle-height  I  stand  and  see 

The  rift  that  runs  between  me  and  the  King. 

I  served  our  Theobald  well  when  I  was  with  him ; 

I  served  King  Henry  well  as  Chancellor; 


NOTES.  455 

I  am  his  no  more,  and  I  must  serve  the  Church. 
This  Canterbury  is  only  less  than  Rome, 
And  all  my  doubts  I  fling  from  me  like  dust, 
Winnow  and  scatter  all  scruples  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  puissance  of  the  warrior. 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Chancellor, 
And  all  the  heap'd  experiences  of  life, 
I  cast  upon  the  side  of  Canterbury — - 
Our  holy  mother  Canterbury,  who  sits 
With  tatter'd  robes.     Laics  and  barons,  thro' 
The  random  gifts  of  careless  kings,  have  graspt 
Her  livings,  her  advowsons,  granges,  farms, 
And  goodly  acres — we  will  make  her  whole ; 
Not  one  rood  lost.     And  for  these  Royal  customs, 
These  ancient  Royal  customs— they  are  Royal, 
Not  of  the  Church — and  let  them  be  anathema, 
And  all  that  speak  for  them  anathema. 

As  a  sign  of  his  changed  demeanour  Becket  resolves 
forthwith  to  send  back  the  Great  Seal  to  the  King, 
and  this  done  the  scene  rapidly  changes  to  the  Council 
of  Northampton,  where  the  Archbishop  at  first  refuses 
and  then  consents  to  sign  the  Constitutions  or  Customs 
proposed  by  the  King,  and  finally  declining  to  ratify 
his  signature  by  his  seal  he  is  driven  to  fly  from  the 
country  and  to  pass  into  banishment.  The  succession 
of  scenes  which  we  have  here  passed  hastily  over  is  full 
of  fine  passages  eminently  illustrative  of  Tennyson's 
dramatic  versatility  and  variety.  We  despair  of  doing 
them  justice  by  quotation,  but  we  cannot  omit  the 
following  extract  from  the  King's  address  to  his 
Council : — 


456  BECKET. 

Barons  and  bishops  of  our  realm  of  England, 

After  the  nineteen  winters  of  King  Stephen — 

A  reign  which  was  no  reign,  when  none  could  sit 

By  his  own  hearth  in  peace  ;  when  murder  common 

As  nature''s  death,  like  Egypt's  plague,  had  filPd 

All  things  with  blood ;  when  every  doorway  blush'd, 

Dash'd  red  with  that  unhallow'd  passover ; 

When  every  baron  ground  his  blade  in  blood; 

The  household  dough  was  kneaded  up  with  blood ; 

The  millwheel  turn'd  in  blood ;  the  wholesome  plow 

Lay  rusting  in  the  furrow's  yellow  weeds. 

Till  famine  dwarft  the  race — I  came,  your  King! 

Nor  dwelt  alone,  like  a  soft  lord  of  the  East, 

In  mine  own  hall,  and  sucking  thro'  fools'  ears 

The  flatteries  of  corruption — went  abroad 

Thro'  all  my  counties,  spied  my  people's  ways ; 

Yea,  heard  the  churl  against  the  baron — yea, 

And  did  him  justice ;  sat  in  mine  own  courts 

Judging  my  judges,  that  had  found  a  King 

Who  ranged  confusions,  made  the  twilight  day, 

And  struck  a  shape  from  out  the  vague,  and  law 

From  madness.     And  the  event — our  fallows  till'd. 

Much  corn,  repeopled  towns,  a  realm  again. 

So  far  my  course,  albeit  not  glassy-smooth, 

Had  prosper'd  in  the  main,  but  suddenly 

Jarr'd  on  this  rock.     A  cleric  violated 

The  daughter  of  his  host,  and  murder'd  him. 

Bishops — York,  London,  Chichester,  Westminster — 

Ye  haled  this  tonsured  devil  into  your  courts ; 

But  since  your  canon  will  not  let  you  take 

Life  for  a  life,  ye  but  degraded  him 

Where  I  had  hang'd  him.     What  doth  hard  murder  care 


NOTES.  457 

For  degradation?  and  that  made  me  muse, 
Being  bounden  by  my  coronation  oath 
To  do  men  justice. 

In  the  Second  Act  Rosamund  herself  is  first  intro- 
duced. It  consists  of  two  scenes  only,  the  first  between 
Henry  and  Rosamund  in  the  bower,  the  second,  in 
sharp  contrast  to  it,  being  the  attempted  reconciliation 
between  Henry  and  Becket  at  the  meeting  of  the  Kings 
at  Montmirail.  In  the  first  Rosamond  pleads  for 
Becket  and  obtains  from  the  King  as  a  gift  the  fateful 
cross  which  Eleanor  had  given  him.  Her  pleading  is 
unheeded  and  Henry  parts  from  her  with  an  evasion. 
In  the  scene  at  Montmirail  the  reconciliation  is  almost 
accomplished  when  it  is  frustrated  by  Becket's  stubborn- 
ness and  the  King's  passionate  temper : 

Henry. 

Ah,  Thomas,  Thomas, 
Thou  art  thyself  again,  Thomas  again. 

Becket  {rising). 
Saving  God's  honour  ! 

Henry. 
Out  upon  thee,  man  ! 
Saving  the  DeviPs  honour,  his  yes  and  no. 
Knights,  bishops,  earls,  this  London  spawn — by  Mahound, 
I  had  sooner  have  been  born  a  Mussulman — 
Less  clashing  with  their  priests — 
I  am  half-way  down  the  slope — will  no  man  stay  me? 
I  dash  myself  to  pieces — I  stay  myself — 
Putf — it  is  gone.     You,  Master  Becket,  you 


4S8  BECKET. 

That  owe  to  me  your  power  over  me — 

Nay,  nay — 

Brother  of  France,  you  have  taken,  cherish'd  him 

Who  thief-like  fled  from  his  own  church  by  night, 

No  man  pursuing.     I  would  have  had  him  back. 

Take  heed  he  do  not  turn  and  rend  you  too : 

For  whatsoever  may  displease  him — that 

Is  clean  against  God's  honour — a  shift,  a  trick 

Whereby  to  challenge,  face  me  out  of  all 

My  regal  rights.     Yet,  yet— that  none  may  dream 

I  go  against  God's  honour— ay,  or  himself 

In  any  reason,  choose 

A  hundred  of  the  wisest  heads  from  Enrfand, 

A  hundred,  too.  from  Normandy  and  Anjou : 

Let  these  decide  on  what  was  customary 

In  olden  days,  and  all  the  Church  of  France 

Decide  on  their  decision,  I  am  content. 

More,  what  the  mightiest  and  the  holiest 

Of  all  his  predecessors  may  have  done 

Ev'n  to  the  least  and  meanest  of  my  own, 

Let  him  do  the  same  to  me— I  am  content. 

In  the  Third  Act  we  return  again  to  Rosamund's 
bower,  and  the  first  note  of  her  impending  fate  is 
struck  in  the  whimsical  rustic  song  of  her  seeming- 
silent  but  garrulous  waiting-maid  Margery  : 

Babble  in  bower 

Under  the  rose  ! 
Bee  mustn't  buzz. 

Whoop — but  he  knows. 
Kiss  me,  little  one, 

Nobody  near ! 


NOTES.  459 

Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 
Whoop — you  can  hear. 

Kiss  in  the  bower, 
Tit  on  the  tree  ! 
Bird  mustn't  tell, 
Whoop — he  can  see- 
Eleanor  has  at  last  tracked  Rosamund  to  her  retreat, 
but  the  catastrophe  of  the  underplot  is  reserved  for  a 
tremendous  scene    in    the   Fourth   Act,  and    before   its 
denouement  is  reached  the  scene  changes  to  the  Traitor's 
Meadow  at  Freteval,  where  Becket,  though  at  last  out- 
wardly reconciled   to   the  King,  begins    to  feel  a   pre- 
sentiment of  the  fate  that  awaits  him.     He  turns  a  deaf 
ear   to   the    remonstrances   of  Walter  Map,  who  urges 
conciliation  and  compromise,  and    thus  reveals  the  full 
scope  of  his  pretensions  and  aspirations  : 

No  !     To  die  for  it— 
I  live  to  die  for  it,  I  die  to  live  for  it. 
The  State  will  die,  the  Church  can  never  die. 
The  King's  not  like  to  die  for  that  which  dies ; 
But  I  must  die  for  that  which  never  dies. 
It  will  be  so — my  visions  in  the  Lord  : 
It  must  be  so,  my  friend  !  the  wolves  of  England 
Must  murder  her  one  shepherd,  that  the  sheep 
May  feed  in  peace.     False  figure.  Map  would  say. 
Earth's  falses  are  heaven's  truths.     And  when  my  voice 
Is  martyr'd  mute,  and  this  man  disappears, 
That  perfect  trust  may  come  again  between  us, 
And  there,  there,  there,  not  here  I  shall  rejoice 
To  find  my  stray  sheep  back  within  the  fold. 


46o  BECKET. 

The  crowd  are  scattering,  let  us  move  away  ! 
And  thence  to  England. 

In  the  opening  of  the  Fourth  Act  Queen  Eleanor 
penetrates  Rosamund's  bower  by  following  the  guidance 
of  Rosamund's  child,  Geoffrey,  who  has  strayed  beyond 
the  forbidden  precincts.  She  proffers  to  Rosamund  the 
choice  of  a  dagger  or  of  poison,  but  Rosamund  pleads 
for  her  life  and  that  of  her  child.  Eleanor's  terms  are 
hard  and  her  taunting  bitter  : 

Eleanor. 
Will  you  not  say  you  are  not  married  to  him? 

Rosamund. 
Ay,  madam,  I  can  say  it,  if  you  will. 

Eleanor. 
Then  is  thy  pretty  boy  a  bastard  ? 

Rosamund. 

No. 

Eleanor. 
And  thou  thyself  a  proven  wanton  ? 

Rosamund. 

No. 

I  am  none  such.     I  never  loved  but  one. 
I  have  heard  of  such  that  range  from  love  to  love 
Like  the  wild  beast — if  you  can  call  it  love. 
I  have  heard  of  such — yea,  even  among  those 
Who  sit  on  thrones — I  never  saw  any  such. 


NOTES.  461 

Never  knew  any  such,  and  howsoever 

You  do  misname  me,  matched  with  any  such, 

I  am  snow  to  mud. 

Eleanor. 

The  more  the  pity  then 
That  thy  true  home — the  heavens — cry  out  for  thee 
Who  art  too  pure  for  earth. 

Then  the  base  Fitzurse,  who  has  accompanied  Eleanor, 
strives  to  renew  his  rejected  suit  to  Rosamund.  "  Give 
her  to  me,"  he  says,  and  Eleanor  offers  Rosamund  her 
life  on  these  degrading  terms  : 

Take  thy  one  chance  ; 
Catch  at  the  last  straw.    Kneel  to  thy  lord  Fitzurse ; 
Crouch  even  because  thou  hatest  him  ;   fawn  upon  him 
For  thy  life  and  thy  son's. 

Rosamund  {rising). 

I  am  a  Clifford, 
My  son  a  Clifford  and  Plantagenet. 
I  am  to  die,  then,  tho'  there  stand  beside  thee 
One  who  might  grapple  with  thy  dagger,  if  he 
Had  aught  of  man,  or  thou  of  woman  ;  or  I 
Would  bow  to  such  a  baseness  as  would  make  me 
Most  worthy  of  it :  both  of  us  will  die. 
And  I  will  fly  with  my  sweet  boy  to  heaven. 
And  shriek  to  all  the  saints  among  the  stars  : 
'Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Eleanor  of  England! 
Murder'd  by  that  adulteress  Eleanor, 
Whose  doings  are  a  horror  to  the  east, 
A  hissing  in  the  west! '     Have  we  not  heard 
Raymond  of  Poitou,  thine  own  uncle — nay, 


462  BECKET. 

Geoffrey  Plantagenet,  thine  own  husband's  father — 
Nay,  ev'n  the  accursed  heathen  Saladdeen — 
Strike  ! 

I  challenge  thee  to  meet  me  before  God. 
Answer  me  there. 

Eleanor  {raising  the  dagger'). 
This  in  thy  bosom,  fool, 
And  after  in  thy  bastard's  ! 

{Enter  Becket  from  behind.     Catches  hold  of  her  arm.) 

Becket. 

Murderess  ! 

Becket's  arrival  arrests  the  murder  of  Rosamund,  and 
he  persuades  her,  according  to  the  alternative  legend,  to 
take  refuge  in  the  nunnery  at  Godstow.  This  proves  in 
the  end  his  own  undoing,  for  Eleanor  goes  back  to  the 
King  in  France,  and,  showing  him  the  cross,  her  own 
gift  to  him,  which  she  had  wrested  from  Rosamund  in 
the  bower,  persuades  him  that  Rosamund  has  sent  it 
back  to  him  because  she  is  dead  to  earth  and  dead 
henceforth  to  him,  and  mockingly  hints  that  Becket 
has  sent  her  to  Godstow  because  he  loves  her  him- 
self. This  calls  forth  from  Henry  the  following  burst 
of  passion,  almost  yEschylean  in  its  intensity  and 
audacity  : — 

To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery  ! 

He  dared  not — liar  !  yet,  yet  I  remember — 

I  do  remember. 

He  bad  me  put  her  into  a  nunnery — 

Into  Godstow,  into  Hellstow,  Devilstow! 


NOTES.  463 

The  Church !  the  Church ! 

God's  eyes !     I  would  the  Church  were  down  in  hell ! 

No  man  to  love  me,  honour  me,  obey  me! 

Sluggards  and  fools! 

The  slave  that  eat  my  bread  has  kick'd  his  King ! 

The  dog  I  cramm'd  with  dainties  worried  me ! 

The  fellow  that  on  a  lame  jade  came  to  court, 

A  ragged  cloak  for  saddle — he,  he,  he, 

To  shake  my  throne,  to  push  into  my  chamber — 

My  bed,  where  ev'n  the  slave  is  private — he — 

ni  have  her  out  again,  he  shall  absolve 

The  bishops — they  but  did  my  will — not  you — 

Sluggards  and  fools,  why  do  you  stand  and  stare? 

You  are  no  king's  men — you — you — you  are  Becket's  men. 

Down  with  King  Henry!  up  with  the  Archbishop! 

Will  no  man  free  me  from  this  pestilent  priest? 

The  fatal  words  are  spoken  in  the  hearing  of  Becket's 
enemies,  Fitzurse,  De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  and  De  Morville, 
and  thus  the  catastrophe  is  prepared.  The  murderers 
seek  Becket  at  Canterbury  and  summon  him  to  submit 
himself  to  the  King.     Becket  defies  them  : 

Ye  think  to  scare  me  from  my  loyalty 

To  God  and  to  the  Holy  Father.     No  ! 

Tho'  all  the  swords  in  England  flash'd  above  me 

Ready  to  fall  at  Henry's  word  or  yours — 

Tho'  all  the  loud-lung'd  trumpets  upon  earth 

Blared  from  the  heights  of  all  the  thrones  of  her  kings, 

Blowing  the  world  against  me,  I  would  stand 

Clothed  with  the  full  authority  of  Rome, 

Mail'd  in  the  perfect  panoply  of  faith. 


464  BECKET. 

First  of  the  foremost  of  their  files,  who  die 
For  God,  to  people  heaven  in  the  great  day 
When  God  makes  up  his  jewels. 

And  so  his  proud  defiance  lasts  until  the  tragic  end,  the 
circumstances  of  which  no  one  who  has  read  English 
history,  and  no  one  who  in  future  reads  EngHsh  poetry, 
is  likely  to  forget. 

We  have  said  enough  and  quoted  enough  to 
show  that  Becket  is  a  work  eminently  worthy  of 
Tennyson's  genius  and  fame.  It  is  dramatic  in  its 
conception  and  execution,  full  of  poetry  and  fire ;  its 
versification  is  strong  and  varied  in  cadence,  and 
its  several  episodes  are  well  conceived  and  skilfully 
woven  together.  Of  the  songs  in  the  play  we  have 
given  two  specimens,  selected  rather  for  their  impor- 
tance in  relation  to  its  dramatic  development  than  for 
their  intrinsic  lyrical  excellence.  In  this  latter  respect, 
though  their  merit  is  not  inconsiderable,  they  are 
surpassed  no  doubt  both  in  poetry  and  music  by  the 
exquisite  duet  which  opens  the  Second  Act,  and  cer- 
tainly they  cannot  compare  with  many  of  Tennyson's 
earlier  lyrical  efforts.  But  it  is  no  real  demerit  in 
songs  inserted  in  a  dramatic  poem  that  they  are  rather 
appropriate  to  the  dramatic  evolution  of  the  play  than 
gems  whose  independent  lustre  might  easily  outshine 
their  setting.  There  are  many  questions  to  be  asked 
in  judging  of  an  historical  drama.  Does  it  illustrate 
the  history  on  which  it  is  based  without  slavishly 
adhering  to  its  details?  Are  its  characters  broadly 
and  firmly  conceived  and  consistently  developed?  Is 
it  really  dramatic  in  conception,  and  does  the  imagina- 


NOTES.  465 

tion  fuse  its  component  parts  into  a  coherent  unity  of 
execution?  If  these  questions  can  be  answered  in  the 
affirmative — and  we  think  they  can  in  the  case  of 
Becket — the  result  is  a  play  which,  whether  it  is  adapted 
to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  modern  theatre  or  not,  is 
a  genuine  and  important  addition  to  the  permanent 
treasures  of  English  literature.  There  have  been 
times  in  the  history  of  the  English  drama  when  no 
play  of  Shakespeare  would  have  held  the  stage  for  a 
week.  It  is  probable  enough  that  there  are  many  plays 
of  Shakespeare  which  would  fail  to  hold  the  stage  at 
the  present  time.  But  the  fault  lies  not  so  much  in 
Shakespeare,  who  wrote  for  the  stage  of  his  time  and 
understood  it,  as  in  the  changed  condition  of  the  stage. 
So  again  it  is  doubtful  whether  Hernani,  for  instance, 
would  in  an  English  dress  attract  an  English  audience ; 
while  it  is  certain  that  Racine  appeals  for  the  most  part 
to  a  taste  which  is  not  English.  It  is  thus  easy  to  see 
that  there  are  varieties  and  degrees  of  dramatic  excel- 
lence, and  that  the  criterion  of  successful  performance 
on  the  actual  stage  is  only  one  of  the  tests  whereby  a 
dramatic  work  of  serious  and  permanent  pretensions  is 
to  be  tried.  But  whatever  test  we  apply  we  can  con- 
fidently express  our  conviction  that  Becket  is  a  drama  of 
great  power,  finely  conceived  and  finely  executed,  as 
well  as  a  poem  of  great  and  varied  beauty. 


VOL.   VI  2H 


B  EC  K  ET 

A  TRAGEDY 

IN  A   PROLOGUE  AND   FOUR  ACTS 

BY 

ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 

AS  ARRANGED   FOR  THE  STAGE 

BY 

HENRY   IRVING 

AND  AFTERWARDS  SUBMITTED  TO  THE  AUTHOR 

AND  PRESENTED  AT  THE  LYCEUM  THEATRE 

ON  6th  FEBRUARY  1893 


DRAMATIS  PERSON/E. 


(Chancellor  of  England 
{afterwards    Archbishop 
of  Canterbury) 
Henry  II.    .  .      King  of  England     . 

King  Louis  of  France    .... 
Gilbert  Foliot        .      Bishop  of  London 
Roger  .  .      Archbishop  of  York 

Bishop  of  Hereford         .... 
Bishop  of  Chichester 


Friends  of  Becket 


Hilary 

John  of  Salisbury 

Herbert  of  Boshani 

Edward  Grim       .     A  monk  of  Cambridge 

Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse  -|    The  Four  Knights 


Sir  Richard  de  Brito 
Sir  William  de  Tracy 
Sir  Hugh  de  Morville 
De  Broc 

Richard  de  Hastings 


of      the      King's 

household,enem  ies 

of  Becket 

(  Grand  Prior   of 


Mr.  Irving 

Mr.  William  Terriss 

Mr.  Bond 

Mr.  Lacy 

Mr.  Beaumont 

Mr.  Gushing 

Mr.  Archer 

Mr.  Bishop 

Mr.  Haviland 

Mr.   W.  J.   HOLLOWAY 

Mr.  Fra,  k  Cooper 
Mr.  Tyars 
Mr.  Hague 
Mr.  Percival 
Mr.  Tabb 


[m 


r.  Seldon 


Templars 

The  Youngest  Knight  Templar       ,         .      Mr.  Gordon  Craig 
Lord  Leicester     .....      Mr.  Harvey 

The  Popes  \ 
Almoner 

Herald 

Geoffrey       Son  of  Rosamund  and  Henry 


Philip  de  Eleemosyna 


r 

(  A 


Mr.  Howe 


Retainers 


Countrymen 

John  of  Oxford 
Servant 


■1 


Called  the  Swearer 


Eleanor  of  Aquitane 
Margery 


f  Queen   of  England, 
I  divorced  from  Louis 


ed  fri 
of  France 


AND 


Mr.  L.  Belmore 
Master  Leo  Hvrne 
Mr.  Yeldha.M 
Mr.  LoRRiss 
Mr.  Johnson 
Mr.  Reynolds 
Mr.  Ian  Robertson 
Mr.  Davis 

Miss  Genevieve  Ward 

Miss  Kate  Phillips 

Miss  Ellen  Terry 


Rosamund  de  Clifford   . 

Knights,  Monks,  Heralds,  Soldiers,  Retainers,  etc. 
469 


SYNOPSIS   OF   SCENERY. 


Scene  i 
Scene  2 


PROLOGUE . 

A  Castle  in  Normandy 
The  Same 


W.  Telbin 
W.  Telbin 


Scene  i 
Scene  2 
Scene  3 
Scene  4 


Scene  i 


ACT  I. 

Becket's  House  in  London 
Street  in  Northampton     . 

The  Same 
The  Hall  in  Northampton 

ACT  H. 
Rosamund's  Bower     . 


/.  Harker 
Hawes  Craven 
Hawes  Craven 
Hawes  Craven 


Hawes  Craven 


Scene  i 

Scene  2 
Scene  3 


Scene  i 
Scene  2 
Scene  3 


ACT  HL 

"  Meeting  of  the  Kings,"  Montmirail      Hawes  Craven 
f  Outside  the  Woods  near  ] 
1        Rosamund's  Bower     J 
Rosamund's  Bower 


Hawes  Craven 
Hawes  Craven 


ACT  IV. 

Castle  in  Normandy  . 

A  Room  in  Canterbury  Monastery 
North  Transept  of  Canterbury  Cathedral 

Scene — France  and  England. 


W.  Telbin 
W.  Telbin 
W.  Telbin 


470 


B  E  C  K  E  T. 

PROLOGUE. 

Scene  i. — A  Castle  in  Normandy. 
Eleanor.      Fitzurse. 

Eleanor.  Dost  thou  love  this  Becket,  this  son  of  a 
London  merchant,  that  thou  hast  sworn  a  vokintary  alle- 
giance to  him  ? 

Fitzurse.  Not  for  my  love  toward  him,  but  because  he 
had  the  love  of  the  King.  How  should  a  baron  love  a 
beggar  on  horseback,  with  the  retinue  of  three  kings  behind 
him,  outroyalling  royalty? 

Eleanor.     Pride  of  the  plebeian  ! 

Fitzurse.     And  this  plebeian  like  to  be  Archbishop  ! 

Eleanor.  True,  and  I  have  an  inherited  loathing  of 
these  black  sheep  of  the  Papacy.  Archbishop?  I  can  see 
further  into  a  man  than  our  hot-headed  Henry,  and  if  there 
ever  come  feud  between  Church  and  Crown,  and  I  do  not 
then  charm  this  secret  out  of  our  loyal  Thomas,  I  am  not 
Eleanor. 

Fitzurse.  Last  night  I  followed  a  woman  in  the  city 
here.  Her  face  was  veiled,  but  the  back  methought  was 
Rosamund — his  paramour,  thy  rival.     I  can  feel  for  thee. 

471 


472  BECKET. 

Eleanor.  Thou  feel  for  me  ! — paramour — rival !  No 
paramour  but  his  own  wedded  wife !  King  Louis  had  no 
paramours,  and  I  loved  him  none  the  more.  Henry  had 
many,  and  I  loved  him  none  the  less.  I  would  she  were 
but  his  paramour,  for  men  tire  of  their  fancies ;  but  I  fear 
this  one  fancy  hath  taken  root,  and  borne  blossom  too,  and 
she,  whom  the  King  loves  indeed,  is  a  power  in  the  State. 
Follow  me  this  Rosamund  day  and  night,  whithersoever  she 
goes ;  track  her,  if  thou  canst,  even  into  the  King's  lodging, 
that  I  may  {clenches  her  fisf\ — may  at  least  have  my  cry 
against  him  and  her, — and  thou  in  thy  way  shouldst  be 
jealous  of  the  King,  for  thou  in  thy  way  didst  once,  what 
shall  I  call  it,  affect  her  thine  own  self. 

FiTZURSE.  Ay,  but  the  young  filly  winced  and  whinnied 
and  flung  up  her  heels ;  and  then  the  king  came  honeying 
about  her,  and  this  Becket,  her  father's  friend,  like  enough 
staved  us  from  her. 

Eleanor.     Us  ! 

FiTZURSE.  Yea,  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  !  There  were 
more  than  I  buzzing  round  the  blossom — De  Tracy — even 
that  flint  De  Brito. 

Eleanor.  Carry  her  off  among  you ;  run  in  upon  her 
and  devour  her,  one  and  all  of  you ;  make  her  as  hateful  to 
herself  and  to  the  King,  as  she  is  to  me. 

FiTZURSE.  I  and  all  would  be  glad  to  wreak  our  spite 
on  the  rosefaced  minion  of  the  King,  and  bring  her  to  the 
level  of  the  dust,  so  that  the  King 

Eleanor.  If  thou  light  upon  her — free  me  from  her  ! 
— let  her  eat  it  like  the  serpent,  and  be  driven  out  of  her 
paradise. 


NOTES.  473 

Scene  2. — The  Same. 
Henry  and  Becket  at  chess. 

Henry.      So  then  our  good  Archbishop  Theobald 
Lies  dying. 

Becket.     I  am  grieved  to  know  as  much. 

Henry.      But  we  must  have  a  mightier  man  than  he 
For  his  successor. 

Becket.  Have  you  thought  of  one  ? 

Henry.      A  cleric  lately  poison'd  his  own  mother, 
And  being  brought  before  the  courts  of  the  Church, 
They  but  degraded  him.     I  hope  they  whipt  him. 
I  would  have  hang'd  him. 

Becket.  It  is  your  move. 

Henry.  Well — there.     {Moves. 

The  Church  in  the  pell-mell  of  Stephen's  time 
Hath  climb'd  the  throne  and  almost  clutched  the  crown; 
But  by  the  royal  customs  of  our  realm 
The  Church  should  hold  her  baronies  of  me, 
Like  other  lords  amenable  to  law. 
I'll  have  them  written  down  and  made  the  law. 

Becket.     My  liege,  I  move  my  bishop. 

Henry.  And  if  I  live. 

No  man  without  my  leave  shall  excommunicate 
My  tenants  or  my  household. 

Becket.  Look  to  your  king. 

Henry.      No  man  without  my  leave  shall  cross  the  seas 
To  set  the  Pope  against  me — I  pray  your  pardon. 

Becket.     Well — will  you  move? 

Henry.  There.  {Moves. 

Becket.  Check — you  move  so  wildly. 

Henry.      There  then !  \_Moves. 


474  BECKET. 

Becket.  Why — there  then,  for  you  see  my  bishop 

Hath  brought  your  king  to  a  standstill.     You  are  beaten. 

Henry.     {I'Cicks  over  the  board.]     Why,  there  then — 
down  go  bishop  and  king  together. 
I  loathe  being  beaten ;  had  1  fixt  my  fancy 
Upon  the  game  I  should  have  beaten  thee, 
But  that  was  vagabond. 

Becket.  Where,  my  liege?     With  Phryne, 

Or  Lais,  or  thy  Rosamund,  or  another? 

Henry.      My  Rosamund  is  no  Lais,  Thomas  Becket; 
And  yet  she  plagues  me  too — no  fault  in  her — 
But  that  I  fear  the  Queen  would  have  her  life. 

Becket.     Put  her  away,  put  her  away,  my  liege  ! 
Put  her  away  into  a  nunnery! 

Safe  enough  there  from  her  to  whom  thou  art  bound 
By  Holy  Church.     And  wherefore  should  she  seek 
The  life  of  Rosamund  de  Clifford  more 
Than  that  of  other  paramours  of  thine  ? 

Henry.      How  dost  thou  know  I  am  not  wedded  to  her  ? 

Becket.     How  should  I  know  ? 

Henry.  That  is  my  secret,  Thomas. 

Becket.     State  secrets  should  be  patent  to  the  statesman 
Who  serves  and  loves  his  king,  and  whom  the  king 
Loves  not  as  statesman,  but  true  lover  and  friend. 

Henry.      Come,   come,   thou    art    but    deacon,   not   yet 
bishop, 
No,  nor  archbishop,  nor  my  confessor  yet. 
I  would  to  God  thou  wert,  for  I  should  find 
An  easy  father  confessor  in  thee. 

Becket.     St.  Denis,   that   thou  shouldst  not.     I   should 
beat 
Thy  kingship  as  my  bishop  hath  beaten  it. 

Henry.      Hell  take  thy  bishop  then,  and  my  kingship  too  ! 


NOTES.  475 

Come,  come,  I  love  thee  and  I  know  thee,  I  know  thee, 

A  doter  on  white  pheasant-flesh  at  feasts, 

A  sauce-deviser  for  thy  days  of  fish, 

A  dish-designer,  and  most  amorous 

Of  good  old  red  sound  liberal  Gascon  wine : 

Will  not  thy  body  rebel,  man,  if  thou  flatter  it  ? 

Becket.     That  palate  is  insane  which  cannot  tell 
A  good  dish  from  a  bad,  new  wine  from  old. 

Henry.     Well,  who  loves  wine  loves  women. 

Becket.  So  I  do. 

Men  are  God's  trees,  and  women  are  God's  flowers ; 
And  when  the  Gascon  wine  mounts  to  my  head, 
The  trees  are  all  the  statelier,  and  the  flowers 
Are  all  the  fairer. 

Henry.  And  thy  thoughts,  thy  fancies  ? 

Becket.     Good  dogs,  my  liege,  well  trained,  and  easily 
caird 
Off"  from  the  game. 

Henry.  Save  for  some  once  or  twice, 

When  they  ran  down  the  game  and  worried  it. 

Becket.     No,  my  liege,  no  ! — not  once — in  God's  name, 
no  ! 

Henry.     Nay,  then,  I  take  thee  at  thy  word — believe  thee 
The  veriest  Galahad  of  old  Arthur's  hall. 
And  so  this  Rosamund,  my  true  heart-wife, 
Not  Eleanor — she  whom  I  love  indeed 
As  a  woman  should  be  loved — Why  dost  thou  smile 
So  dolorously  ? 

Becket.  My  good  liege,  if  a  man 

Wastes  himself  among  women,  how  should  he  love 
A  woman,  as  a  woman  should  be  loved  ? 

Henry.     How  shouldst  thou  know  that  never  hast  loved 
one? 


476  BECKET. 

Come,  I  would  give  her  to  thy  care  in  England 
When  I  am  out  in  Normandy  or  Anjou. 

Becket.     My  lord,  I  am  your  subject,  not  your 

Henry.  Pander. 

God's  eyes  !  I  know  all  that — not  my  purveyor 
Of  pleasures,  but  to  save  a  life — her  life  ; 
Ay,  and  the  soul  of  Eleanor  from  hell-fire. 
I  have  built  a  secret  bower  in  England,  Thomas, 
A  nest  in  a  bush. 

Becket.  And  where,  my  liege  ? 

Henry.     \}\niispers.'\  Thine  ear. 

Becket.     That's  lone  enough. 

Henry.     {^Laying  paper    on    tableJ]     This    chart    here 
mark'd  "  Her  Bower,'''' 
Take,  keep  it,  friend.     See,  first,  a  circling  wood, 
A  hundred  pathways  running  everyway, 
And  then  a  brook,  a  bridge  ;  and  after  that 
This  labyrinthine  brickwork  maze  in  maze, 
And  then  another  wood,  and  in  the  midst 
A  garden  and  my  Rosamund.     Look,  this  line — 
The  rest  you  see  is  coloured  green — but  this 
Draws  thro'  the  chart  to  her. 

Becket.  This  blood-red  line  ? 

Henry.     Ay  !  blood,  perchance,  except  thou  see  to  her. 

Becket.     And   where   is    she  ?     There    in    her   English 
nest  ? 

Henry.     Would  God  she  were — no,  here  within  the  city. 
We  take  her  from  her  secret  bower  in  Anjou 
And  pass  her  to  her  secret  bower  in  England. 
She  is  ignorant  of  all  but  that  I  love  her. 

Becket.     My  liege,  I  pray  thee  let  me  hence  :  a  widow 
And  orphan  child,  whom  one  of  thy  wild  barons 

Henry.     Ay,  ay,  but  swear  to  see  to  her  in  England. 


NOTES.  477 

Becket.     Well,  well,  I  swear,  but  not  to  please  myself. 

Henry.     Whatever  come  between  us  ? 

Becket.  What  should  come 

Between  us,  Henry? 

Henry.  Nay — I  know  not,  Thomas. 

Becket.     What     need     then?      Well — whatever     come 
between  us.  \Goi}ig. 

Henry.     A  moment!  thou  didst  help  me  to  my  throne 
In  Theobald's  time,  and  after  by  thy  wisdom 
Hast  kept  it  firm  from  shaking;  but  now  I, 
For  my  realm's  sake,  myself  must  be  the  wizard 
To  raise  that  tempest  which  will  set  it  trembling 
Only  to  base  it  deeper.     I  will  have 
My  young  son  Henry  crown'd  the  King  of  England, 
That  so  the  Papal  bolt  may  pass  by  England, 
As  seeming  his,  not  mine,  and  fall  abroad, 
ril  have  it  done — and  now. 

Becket.  Surely  too  young 

Even  for  this  shadow  of  a  crown  ;  and  tho' 
I  love  him  heartily,  I  can  spy  already 
A  strain  of  hard  and  headstrong  in  him.     Say, 
The  Queen  should  play  his  kingship  against  thine  ! 

Henry.     I    will    not    think    so,    Thomas.      Who    shall 
crown  him? 
Canterbury  is  dying. 

Becket.  The  next  Canterbury. 

Henry.     And   who   shall    he    be,    my   friend    Thomas? 
Who? 

Becket.     Name  him;  the  Holy  Father  will  confirm  him. 

Henry.     \_Lays  his  hand  on  V>^cyjiLt''?>  shoulder P^     Here! 

Becket.     Mock  me  not.     I  am  not  even  a  monk. 
Thy  jest — no  more.     Why — look — is  this  a  sleeve 
For  an  archbishop  ? 


478  BECKET. 

Henry.  But  the  arm  within 

Is  Becket's,  who  hath  beaten  down  my  foes. 

Becket.     a  soldier's,  not  a  spiritual  arm. 

Henry.     I  laclc  a  spiritual  soldier,  Thomas — 
A  man  of  this  world  and  the  next  to  boot. 

Becket.     There's  Gilbert  Foliot. 

Henry.  He!  too  thin,  too  thin. 

Thou  art  the  man  to  fill  out  the  Church  robe ; 
Your  Foliot  fasts  and  fawns  too  much  for  me. 

Becket.     Roger  of  York. 

Henry.  Roger  is  Roger  of  York. 

King,  Church,  and  State  to  him  but  foils  wherein 
To  set  that  precious  jewel,  Roger  of  York. 
No. 

Becket.     Sire,  the  business 
Of  thy  whole  kingdom  waits  me  :  let  me  go. 

Henry.     Answer  me  first. 

Becket.     Make    7>ie    archbishop!      Why,    my    liege,    I 
know 
Some  three  or  four  poor  priests  a  thousand  times 
Fitter  for  this  grand  function.     Me  archbishop! 
God's  favour  and  king's  favour  might  so  clash 
That  thou  and  I That  were  a  jest  indeed! 

Henry.     Thou  angerest  me,  man  :  I  do  not  jest. 

Enter  Eleanor. 
Eleanor.     {Singhig.'\ 

Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done 


Henry.     {To  Becket,  who  is  gomg.']     Thou  shalt  not 
go.     I  have  not  ended  with  thee. 


NOTES.  479 

Eleanor.  [Seeing  chart  on  table,  aside. '\  This  chart 
with  the  red  line!  her  bower!  whose  bower? 

Henry.  The  chart  is  not  mine,  but  Becket's :  take  it, 
Thomas. 

Eleanor.  Becket  !  O — ay — and  these  chessmen  on 
the  floor — the  king's  crown  broken  !  Becket  hath  beaten 
thee  again — and  thou  hast  kicked  down  the  board.  I 
know  thee  of  old. 

Henry.  True  enough,  my  mind  was  set  upon  other 
matters. 

Eleanor.  What  matters  ?  State  matters  ?  love 
matters  ? 

Henry.     My  love  for  thee,  and  thine  for  me. 

Eleanor.  Louis  of  France  loved  me,  and  I  dreamed 
that  I  loved  Louis  of  France :  and  I  loved  Henry  of  Eng- 
land, and  Henry  of  England  dreamed  that  he  loved  me ; 
but  the  marriage-garland  withers  even  with  the  putting 
on,  the  harvest  moon  is  the  ripening  of  the  harvest,  and  the 
honeymoon  is  the  gall  of  love  ;  he  dies  of  his  honeymoon. 

Henry.      Dead   is   he,  my  Queen  ?      What,   altogether  ? 
Let  me  swear  nay  to  that  by  this  cross  on  thy  neck. 
God's  eyes  !  what  a  lovely  cross  !  what  jewels  ! 

Eleanor.  Doth  it  please  you  ?  Take  it  and  wear  it 
on  that  hard  heart  of  yours — there.  [Gives  it  to  him. 

Henry.      [Puts  it  on.]     On   this   left   breast  before  so 
hard  a  heart. 
To  hide  the  scar  left  by  thy  Parthian  dart. 

Eleanor.  Has  my  simple  song  set  you  jingling  ?  Nay, 
if  I  took  and  translated  that  hard  heart  into  our  Provencal 
facilities,  I  could  so  play  about  it  with  the  rhyme 

Henry.  That  the  heart  were  lost  in  the  rhyme  and  the 
matter  in  the  metre.  May  we  not  pray  you,  Madam,  to 
spare  us  the  hardness  of  your  facility  ? 


48o  BECKET. 

Eleanor.  The  wells  of  Castaly  are  not  wasted  upon 
the  desert.     We  did  but  jest. 

Henry.  There's  no  jest  on  the  brows  of  Herbert  there. 
What  is  it,  Herbert  ? 

E7iter  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Herbert.     My  liege,  the  good  Archbishop  is  no  more. 

Henry.     Peace  to  his  soul  ! 

Herbert.  I  left  him  with  peace  on  his  face— that 
sweet  other-world  smile,  which  will  be  reflected  in  the 
spiritual  body  among  the  angels.  But  he  longed  much  to 
see  your  Grace  and  the  Chancellor  ere  he  past,  and  his 
last  words  were  a  commendation  of  Thomas  Becket  to  your 
Grace  as  his  successor  in  the  archbishoprick. 

Henry.     Ha,  Becket  !  thou  rememberest  our  talk  ! 

Becket.     My  heart  is  full  of  tears— I  have  no  answer. 

Henry.  Well,  well,  old  men  must  die,  or  the  world 
would  grow  mouldy.  A-hawking,  a-hawking  !  If  I  sit,  I 
grow  fat.  \_Leaps  over  table,  and  exit. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  i. — Becket's  House  in  London.  Chatnber  barely 
furnished.  Becket  unrobing.  Herbert  of  Bosham 
and  Servant. 

Servant.     Shall  I  not  help  your  lordship  to  your  rest  ? 

Becket.     Friend,  am  I  so  much  better  than  thyself 
That  thou  shouldst  help  me  ?     Thou  art  wearied  out 
With  this  day's  work,  get  thee  to  thine  own  bed. 
Leave  me  with  Herbert,  friend.  \_Exit  Servant. 

Help  me  off,  Herbert,  with  this— and  this. 

Herbert.     Was  not  the  people's  blessing  as  we  past 
Heart -comfort  and  a  balsam  to  thy  blood  ? 

Becket.     The   people   know    their   Church   a   tower  of 
strength, 
A  bulwark  against  Throne  and  Baronage. 
Too  heavy  for  me,  this  ;  off  with  it,  Herbert  ! 

Herbert.     Is  it  so  much  heavier  than  thy  Chancellor's 
robe  ? 

Becket.     No  ;  but  the  Chancellor's  and  the  Archbishop's 
Together  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 

Herbert.     Not  heavier  than  thine  armour  at  Toulouse  ? 

Becket.     But  hast  thou  heard  this  cry  of  Gilbert  P'oliot 
That  I  am  not  the  man  to  be  your  Primate, 
For  Henry  could  not  work  a  miracle — 
Make  an  Archbishop  of  a  soldier? 

VOL.  VI.  2  1  481 


482  BECKET. 

Herbert.  Ay, 

For  Gilbert  Foliot  held  himself  the  man. 

Becket.     Am  I  the  man?     That  rang 
Within  my  head  last  night,  and  when  I  slept 
Methought  I  stood  in  Canterbury  Minster, 
And  spake  to  the  Lord  God,  and  said, 
'•  Henry  the  King  hath  been  my  friend,  my  brother, 
And  mine  uplifter  in  this  world,  and  chosen  me 
For  this  thy  great  archbishoprick,  believing 
That  I  should  go  against  the  Church  with  him, 
And  I  shall  go  against  him  with  the  Church. 
Am  /  the  man  ?  "     And  the  Lord  answer'd  me, 
"  Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more  the  man." 
And  thereupon,  methought,  He  drew  toward  me, 
And  smote  me  down  upon  the  Minster  floor. 
I  fell. 

Herbert.     God  make  not  thee,  but  thy  foes,  fall. 

Becket.     And  yet  I  seem  appall'd — on  such  a  sudden 
At  such  an  eagle-height  I  stand  and  see 
The  rift  that  runs  between  me  and  the  King. 

Herbert.    Thomas,  thou  art  moved  too  much. 

Becket.  O  Herbert,  here 

I  gash  myself  asunder  from  the  King, 
Tho'  leaving  each,  a  wound  ;  mine  own,  a  grief 
To  show  the  scar  for  ever — his,  a  hate 
Not  ever  to  be  heal'd. 

E7iter  Rosamund  de  Clifford.    Drops  her  veil. 

Rosamund.     Save  me,  father,  hide  me. 
Becket.  Rosamund  de  Clifford  ! 

Rosamund.     They  follow  me — and  I  must  not  be  known. 
Becket.     Pass  in  with  Herbert  there. 

{Exeunt  Rosamund  and  Herbert  by  side  door. 


NOTES.  483 

Enter  Fitzurse. 

FiTZURSE.    The  Archbishop ! 

Becket.  Ay!  what  wouldst  thou,  Reginald  ? 

Fitzurse.    Why — why,    my    lord,    I    follow'd — follow'd 
one — • 

Becket.   And  then  what  follows  ?     Let  me  follow  thee. 

Fitzurse.     It    much   imports   me    I    should    know    her 
name. 

Becket.    What  her? 

Fitzurse.  The  woman  that  I  follow'd  hither. 

Becket.     Perhaps  it  may  import  her  all  as  much 
Not  to  be  known. 

Fitzurse.  And  what  care  I  for  that? 

Come,  come,  my  lord  Archbishop ;  I  saw  that  door 
Close  even  now  upon  the  woman. 

Becket.  Well  ? 

Fitzurse.     \_Making  for  the  door.]      Nay,  let  me  pass, 
my  lord,  for  I  must  know. 

Becket.     Back,  man! 
Go  home,  and  sleep  thy  wine  off,  for  thine  eyes 
Glare  stupid-wild  with  wine. 

Fitzurse.     [Making  to  the  door.']     I  must  and  will. 
I  care  not  for  thy  new  archbishoprick. 

Becket.     Back,  man,  I  tell  thee  !     Lest 
I  smite  thee  with  my  crozier  on  the  skull ! 

Fitzurse.  I  shall  remember  this. 

Becket.    Do,  and  begone !  lExit  Fitzurse. 

These  be  those  baron-brutes 
That  havock'd  all  the  land  in  Stephen's  day. 
Rosamund  de  Clifford. 


484  BECKET. 

Re-enter  Rosamund  and  Herbert. 

Rosamund.  Here  am  I. 

Becket.  Why  here  ? 

We  gave  thee  to  the  charge  of  John  of  Salisbury, 
To  pass  thee  to  thy  secret  bower  to-morrow. 
Wast  thou  not  told  to  keep  thyself  from  sight? 

Rosamund.     Poor    bird  of   passage!     so   I    was  ;    but, 
father, 
They  say  that  you  are  wise  in  winged  things, 
And  know  the  ways  of  Nature.     Bar  the  bird 
From  following  the  fled  summer — a  chink — he's  out, 
Gone!     And  there  stole  into  the  city  a  breath 
Full  of  the  meadows,  and  it  minded  me 
Of  the  sweet  woods  of  Clifford,  and  the  walks 
Where  I  could  move  at  pleasure,  and  I  thought 
Lo!  I  must  out  or  die. 

Becket.  Or  out  and  die. 

And  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  this  Fitzurse  ? 

Rosamund.     Nothing.     He  sued  my  hand.     I  shook  at 
him. 
He  found  me  once  alone.     Nay — nay — I  cannot 
Tell  you :  my  father  drove  him  and  his  friends, 
De  Tracy  and  De  Brito,  from  our  castle. 
I  heard  him  swear  revenge. 

Becket.  Why  will  you  court  it 

By  self-exposure  1  flutter  out  at  night  ? 
Make  it  so  hard  to  save  a  moth  from  the  fire? 

Rosamund.     I    have  saved    many  of    'em.      You   catch 
'em,  so, 
Softly,  and  fling  them  out  to  the  free  air. 
They  burn  themselves  within-door. 

Becket.  Our  good  John 


NOTES.  485 

Must  speed  you  to  your  bower  at  once.     The  child 
Is  there  already. 

Rosamund.        Yes — the  child — the  child — 
O  rare,  a  whole  long  day  of  open  field. 

Becket.     Ay,  but  you  go  disguised. 

Rosamund.  O  rare  again  ! 

We'll  baffle  them,  I  warrant.     What  shall  it  be? 
ril  go  as  a  nun. 

Becket.  No. 

Rosamund.  What,  not  good  enough 

Even  to  play  at  nun? 

Becket.  Dan  John  with  a  nun, 

That  Map,  and  these  new  railers  at  the  Church, 
May  plaister  his  clean  name  with  scurrilous  rhymes  ! 
No! 

Go  like  a  monk,  cowling  and  clouding  up 
That  fatal  star,  thy  Beauty,  from  the  squint 
Of  lust  and  glare  of  malice.     Good-night!  good-night! 

Rosamund.     Father,  I  am  so  tender  to  all  hardness! 
Nay,  father,  first  thy  blessing. 

Becket.  Wedded? 

Rosamund.  Father ! 

Becket.      Well,  well!      I    ask  no  more.      Heaven  bless 
thee  !  hence  ! 

Rosamund.     O   holy  father,  when  thou  seest  him  next, 
Commend  me  to  thy  friend. 

Becket.  What  friend  ? 

Rosamund.  The  King. 

Becket.     Herbert,  take  out  a  score  of  armed  men 
To  guard  this  bird  of  passage  to  her  cage ; 
And  watch  Fitzurse,  and  if  he  follow  thee. 
Make  him  thy  prisoner.     I  am  Chancellor  yet. 

\_Exeuni  Herbert  atid  Rosamund. 


486  BECKET. 

Poor  soul!  poor  soul! 

My  friend,  the  King!  .   .  .  O  thou  Great  Seal  of  England, 

Given  me  by  my  dear  friend  the  King  of  England— 

We  long  have  wrought  together,  thou  and  I — 

Now  must  I  send  thee  as  a  common  friend 

To  tell  the  King,  my  friend,  I  am  against  him. 

Herbert.      {Re-entering.^      My  lord,  the  town  is  quiet 
and  the  moon 
Divides  the  whole  long  street  with  light  and  shade. 
No  footfall — no  Fitzurse. 

Becket.     The    hog    hath    tumbled    himself    into    some 
corner, 
Some  ditch,  to  snore  away  his  drunkenness 
Into  the  sober  headache, — Nature's  moral 
Against  excess.     Let  the  Great  Seal  be  sent 
Back  to  the  King  to-morrow. 

Herbert.     Must  that  be? 
The  King  may  rend  the  bearer  limb  from  limb. 

Enter  John  of  Salisbury. 

John.     Thomas,  thou  wast  not  happy  taking  charge 
Of  this  wild  Rosamund  to  please  the  King, 
Nor  am  I  happy  having  charge  of  her — 
The  included  Danae  has  escaped  again 
Her  tower,  and  her  Acrisius— where  to  seek  ? 
I  have  been  about  the  city. 

Becket.  Thou  wilt  find  her 

Back  in  her  lodging.     Go  with  her— at  once— 
To-night— my  men  will  guard  you  to  the  gates. 
Be  sweet  to  her,  she  has  many  enemies. 
Send  the  Great  Seal  by  daybreak.     Both  good-night! 

{Exit. 


NOTES.  487 

Scene  2. — Street  in  Northampton  leading  to  the  Castle. 
Eleanor's  Retainers  and  Becket's  Retainers 
fighting. 

Enter  Eleanor  and  Becket  from  opposite  streets. 

Eleanor.     Peace,  fools ! 

Becket.     Peace,  friends  !  what  idle  brawl  is  this? 
Retainers  of  Becket.     They  said — her  Grace's  people 
— thou  wast  found — 
Liars !  I  shame  to  quote  'em — caught,  my  lord, 
With  a  wanton  in  thy  lodging — Hell  requite  'em  ! 
Retainers    of    Eleanor.     My  liege,  the  Lord  Fitzurse 
reported  this 
In  passing  to  the  Castle  even  now. 

Retainers  of  Becket.    And  then  they  mock'd  us  and 

we  fell  upon  'em. 
Becket.     \_To  his    Retainers.]     Go,  go — no  more  of 

this! 
Eleanor.     {^To  her  Retainers.]     Away  ! — 

\Exetmt  Retainers. 

Fitzurse 

Becket.     Nay,  let  him  be. 

Eleanor.  No,  no,  my  Lord  Archbishop, 

'Tis  known  you  are  midwinter  to  all  women, 
But  often  in  your  chancellorship  you  served 
The  follies  of  the  King. 

Becket.  No,  not  these  follies ! 

Eleanor.     My    lord,     Fitzurse     beheld     her     in     your 

lodging. 
Becket.     Whom  ? 

Eleanor.     Well — you  know — the  minion,  Rosamund. 
Becket.     He  had  good  eyes  ! 


488  BECKET. 

Eleanor.  Then  hidden  in  the  street 

He  watch'd  her  pass  with  John  of  Salisbury 
And  heard  her  cry  "Where  is  this  bower  of  mine?" 

Becket.     Good  ears  too ! 

Eleanor.  You  are  going  to  the  Castle, 

Will  you  subscribe  the  customs  ? 

Becket.  I  leave  that, 

Knowing  how  much  you  reverence  Holy  Church, 
My  liege,  to  your  conjecture. 

Eleanor.  I  and  mine — 

And  many  a  baron  holds  along  with  me — 
Are  not  so  much  at  feud  with  Holy  Church 
But  we  might  take  your  side  against  the  customs — 
So  that  you  grant  me  one  slight  favour. 

Becket.  What? 

Eleanor.     A   sight   of   that    same   chart  which    Henry 
gave  you 
With  the  red  line — "her  bower." 

Becket.  And  to  what  end? 

Eleanor.     Look  !    I  would  move  this  wanton  from  his 
sight 
And  take  the  Church's  danger  on  myself. 

Becket.     For  which  she  should  be  duly  grateful. 

Eleanor.  True! 

Tho'  she  that  binds  the  bond,  herself  should  see 
That  kings  are  faithful  to  their  marriage  vow. 

Becket.     Ay,  Madam,  and  queens  also. 

Eleanor.  And  queens  also! 

What  is  your  drift? 

Becket.  My  drift  is  to  the  Castle, 

Where  I  shall  meet  the  Barons  and  my  King.  \Exit. 


NOTES.  489 

De  Broc,  De  Tracy,  De  Brito,  De  Morville 
(^passing) . 

Eleanor.    To  the  Castle  ? 

De  Broc.  Ay ! 

Eleanor.  Stir  up  the  King,  the  Lords  ! 

Set  all  on  fire  against  him  ! 

De  Brito.  Ay,  good   Madam  !      {^Exeunt. 

Eleanor.     Fool  !  I  will  make  thee  hateful  to  thy  King. 
Churl  !  I  will  have  thee  frighted  into  France, 
And  I  shall  live  to  trample  on  thy  grave.  \Exit. 

Scene  3. — The  Same. 

De  Broc,  De  Tracy,  De  Brito,  De  Morville 

{passing) . 

FiTZURSE.     I  hate  him  for  his  insolence  to  all. 
De  Tracy.     And  I  for  all  his  insolence  to  her. 
De  Brito.     I  hate  him  for  I  hate  him  is  my  reason, 
And  yet  I  hate  him  for  a  hypocrite. 


Scene  4. — The  Hall  in  Northamptoti  Castle. 

On  one  side  of  the  stage  doors  of  an  inner  Council-chamber., 
half  open.  At  the  bottom,  the  great  doors  of  the 
Hall.  Roger  Archbishop  of  York,  Foliot 
Bishop  of  London,  Hilary  of  Chichester, 
Bishop  of  Hereford,  Richard  de  Hastings 
{Grand  Prior  of  Templars),  Philip  de  Eleemosyna 
{the  Pope'^s  Almoner),  and  others.  De  Broc,  Fitz- 
urse,   De    Brito,    De    Morville,    De    Tracy,  and 


490  BECKET. 

other  Barons  assembled — a   table   before   them.     John 
OF  Oxford,  President  of  the  Council. 

Enter  Becket  and  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Becket.     Where  is  the  king  ? 

Roger  of  York.     Gone  hawking  on  the  Nene, 
His  heart  so  gall'd  with  thine  ingratitude, 
He  will  not  see  thy  face  till  thou  hast  signM 
These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the  realm. 
Thy  sending  back  the  Great  Seal  madden'd  him, 
He  all  but  pluck'd  the  bearer's  eyes  away. 
Take  heed,  lest  he  destroy  thee  utterly. 

Becket.     Then  shalt  thou  step  into  my  place  and  sign. 

Roger  of  York.     Didst    thou    not    promise    Henry   to 
obey 
These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the  realm  ? 

Becket.     Saving  the  honour  of  my  order — ay. 
Customs,  traditions, — clouds  that  come  and  go  ; 
The  customs  of  the  Church  are  Peter's  rock. 

Roger   of  York.     Saving   thine   order  !     Saving   thine 
order,  Thomas, 
Is  black  and  white  at  once,  and  comes  to  nought. 

Becket.  Roger  of  York, 

When  I  and  thou  were  youths  in  Theobald's  house, 
Twice  did  thy  malice  and  thy  calumnies 
Exile  me  from  the  face  of  Theobald. 
Now  I  am  Canterbury  and  thou  art  York. 

Roger  of  York.     And  is  not  York  the  peer  of  Canter- 
bury ? 

John    of    Oxford.      Peace,    peace,    my    lords  !     these 
customs  are  no  longer 
As  Canterbury  calls  them,  wandering  clouds. 
But  by  the  King's  command  are  written  down, 


NOTES.  '  491 

And  by  the  King's  command  I,  John  of  Oxford, 
The  President  of  this  Council,  read  them. 

Becket.  Read! 

John  of  Oxford.  "  If  any  cleric  be  accused  of 
felony,  the  Church  shall  not  j^rotect  him  ;  but  he  shall 
answer  to  the  summons  of  the  King's  court  to  be  tried 
therein." 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign. 

John  of  Oxford.  "When  a  bishoprick  falls  vacant, 
the  King,  till  another  be  appointed,  shall  receive  the 
revenues  thereof." 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign. 

John  of  Oxford.  "And  when  the  vacancy  is  to  be 
filled  up,  the  King  shall  summon  the  chapter  of  that  church 
to  court,  and  the  election  shall  be  made  in  the  Chapel 
Royal." 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign :   for  that  would  make 
Our  island-Church  a  schism  fi-om  Christendom, 
And  weigh  down  all  free  choice  beneath  the  throne. 

FoLiOT.    And  was  thine  own  election  so  canonical, 
Good  father  ? 

Becket.         If  it  were  not,  Gilbert  Foliot, 
I  mean  to  cross  the  sea  to  France,  and  lay 
My  crozier  in  the  Holy  Father's  hands. 
And  bid  him  re-create  me,  Gilbert  Foliot. 

Foliot.     Nay  ;  by  another  of  these  customs  thou 
Wilt  not  be  suffered  so  to  cross  the  seas 
Without  the  license  of  our  lord  the  King. 

Becket.     That,  too,  I  cannot  sign. 

De  Broc,  De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse, 
De  Morville,  start  up — a  clash  of  swords. 

Sign  and  obey  ! 


492  BECKET. 

Becket.     My  lords,  is  this  a  combat  or  a  council  ? 
Are  ye  my  masters,  or  my  lord  the  King  ? 

Lords.     \Shoidingr^     Sign,  and  obey  the  crown  ! 

Becket.     The  crown  ?     Shall  I    do  less   for  Canterbury 
Than  Henry  for  the  crown  ? 

De  Broc.     The  King  is  quick  to  anger;   if  thou  anger 
him, 
We  wait  but  the  King's  word  to  strike  thee  dead. 

Becket.     Strike,  and  I  die  the  death  of  martyrdom  ; 
Strike,  and  ye  set  these  customs  by  my  death 
Ringing  their  own  death-knell  thro'  all  the  realm. 

Herbert.     And  I  can  tell  you,  lords,  ye  are  all  as  like 
To  lodge  a  fear  in  Thomas  Becket's  heart 
As  find  a  hare's  form  in  a  lion's  cave. 

John   of   Oxford.      Ay,   sheathe   your  swords,   ye  will 
displease  the  King. 

De  Broc.     Why  down  then  thou  !    but  an  he  come  to 
Saltwood, 
By  God's  death  thou  shalt  stick  him  like  a  calf  ! 

{Sheathing  his  sword. 

Hilary.     O  my  good  lord,  I  do  entreat  thee — sign. 
Save  the  King's  honour  here  before  his  barons. 

Philip   de   Eleemosyxa.     My   lord,  thine   ear !     I  have 
the  ear  of  the  Pope. 
He  pray"d  me  to  pray  thee  to  pacify 
Thy  King  ;  for  if  thou  go  against  thy  King, 
Then  must  he  likewise  go  against  thy  King, 
And  then  thy  King  might  join  the  Antipope, 
And  that  would  shake  the  Papacy  as  it  stands. 

Becket.     If  Rome  be  feeble,  then  should  I  be  firm. 

Richard  de  Hastings.     {Kneeling^     Becket,  I  am  the 
oldest  of  the  Templars  ; 
I  knew  thy  father  ;  he  would  be  mine  age 


NOTES.  493 

Had  he  lived  now  ;  think  of  me  as  thy  father  ! 
Behold  thy  father  kneeling  to  thee,  Becket. 

Another  Templar.       \_Kneelhig.']       Father,   I   am   the 
youngest  of  the  Templars, 
Look  on  me  as  I  were  thy  bodily  son, 
For,  like  a  son,  I  lift  my  hands  to  thee. 

Philip.     Wilt  thou  hold  out  for  ever,  Thomas  Becket  ? 
Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 

Becket.      [^S!g?is.']     Why — there  then — there — I  sign. 
And  swear  to  obey  the  customs. 

[Becket  draws  apart  with  Herbert. 
Herbert,  Herbert,  have  I  betray'd  the  Church  ? 
I'll  have  the  paper  back — blot  out  my  name. 

Herbert.     Too  late,  my  lord :  you  see  they  are  signing 
there. 

Becket.     False  to  myself— it  is  the  will  of  God 
To  break  me,  prove  me  nothing  of  myself  ! 
This  Almoner  hath  tasted  Henry's  gold. 
The  cardinals  have  finger'd  Henry's  gold. 
And  Rome  is  venal  ev'n  to  rottenness. 
I  see  it,  1  see  it. 

I  am  no  soldier,  as  he  said — at  least 
No  leader. 

FOLIOT.     {From  the  table.']     My  lord   Archbishop,  thou 
hast  yet  to  seal. 

Becket.     First,  Foliot,  let  me  see  what  I  have  sign'd. 

{Goes  to  the  table. 
What,  this  !  and  this— what !  new  and  old  together  ! 
Seal  ?     If  a  seraph  shouted  from  the  sun. 
And  bad  me  seal  against  the  rights  of  the  Church, 
I  would  anathematise  him.     I  will  not  seal. 

\Exit  with  Herbert. 


494  BECKET. 

Enter  King  Henry. 

Henry.     Where's  Thomas  ?   hath  he  sign'd  ?   show  me 
the  papers  ! 
SignM  and  not  seal'd  !     How's  that  ? 

John  of  Oxford.  He  would  not  seal. 

And  when  he  signM  he  sat  down  there  and  groan'd — 
"  False  to  myself !     It  is  the  will  of  God  ! " 

Henry.     God's  will  be  what  it  will,  the  man  shall  seal, 
Or  I  will  seal  his  doom.     My  burgher's  son — 
Nay,  if  I  cannot  break  him  as  the  prelate, 
I'll  crush  him  as  the  subject.     Send  for  him  back. 

\Sits  071  his  throne. 
Barons  and  bishops  of  our  realm  of  England, 
After  the  nineteen  winters  of  King  Stephen — 
A  reign  which  was  no  reign — I  came,  your  King  ! 
And  the  event— our  fallows  till'd. 
Much  corn,  repeopled  towns,  a  realm  again. 
And,  looking  thro'  my  reign, 
I  found  a  hundred  ghastly  murders  done 
By  men,  the  scum  and  offal  of  the  Church ; 
Then,  glancing  thro'  the  story  of  this  realm, 
I  came  on  certain  wholesome  usages. 
Lost  in  desuetude,  of  my  grandsire's  day. 
Good  royal  customs — had  them  written  fair 
For  John  of  Oxford  here  to  read  to  you. 

John  of  Oxford.    And  I  can  easily  swear  to  these  as 
being 
The  King's  will  and  God's  will  and  justice  ;  yet 
I  could  but  read  a  part  to-day,  because 

FiTzuRSE.     Because  my  lord  of  Canterbury 

De  Tracy.  Ay, 

This  lord  of  Canterbury 


NOTES.  495 

De  Brito.  As  is  his  wont 
Too  much  of  late  whene'er  your  royal  rights 
Are  mooted  in  our  councils 

FiTZURSE.  — made  an  uproar. 

Henry.     And  Becket  had  my  bosom  on  all  this ; 
If  ever  man  by  bonds  of  gratefulness — 
I  raised  him  from  the  puddle  of  the  gutter, 
Hoped,  were  he  chosen  Archbishop,  Church  and  Crown, 
Two  sisters  gliding  in  an  equal  dance, 
Two  rivers  gently  flowing  side  by  side — 
But  no ! 

The  bird  that  moults  sings  the  same  song  again, 
The  snake  that  sloughs  comes  out  a  snake  again. 
God's  eyes !     I  had  meant  to  make  him  all  but  king. 
Chancellor-Archbishop,  he  might  well  have  sway'd 
All  England  under  Henry,  the  young  King, 
When  I  was  hence.     What  did  the  traitor  say? 
False  to  himself,  but  ten-fold  false  to  me ! 
The  will  of  God — why,  then  it  is  my  will — 
Is  he  coming? 

Hilary.     \_Entenng.']     With  a  crowd  of  worshippers, 
And  holds  his  cross  before  him  thro'  the  crowd 
As  one  that  puts  himself  in  sanctuary. 
Henry.     His  cross! 

Roger  of   York.     His  cross  !    I'll   front   him,   cross  to 
cross.  'lExit  Roger  of  York. 

Henry.     His  cross  !  it  is  the  traitor  that  imputes 
Treachery  to  his  King! 
It  is  not  safe  for  me  to  look  upon  him. 
Away — with  me ! 

[Goes  in  with  his  Barons  to  the  Council-chamber., 
the  door  of  which  is  left  open. 


496  BECKET. 

Enter  Becket,  holding  his  cross  of  silver  before  him. 
The  Bishops  come  round  him. 

Hereford.      The  King  will   not   abide   thee  with   thy 
cross. 
Permit  me,  my  good  lord,  to  bear  it  for  thee, 
Being  thy  chaplain. 

Becket.  No  :  it  must  protect  me. 

FOLIOT.     I  am  the  Dean  of  the  province :   let  me  bear  it. 
Make  not  thy  King  a  traitorous  murderer. 

Becket.      Did    not    your    barons     draw    their    swords 
against  me  ? 

Enter  Roger  of  York,  with  his  cross,  advaticiftg  to 
Becket. 

Becket.     Wherefore   dost    thou    presume    to    bear    thy 
cross. 
Against  the  solemn  ordinance  from  Rome, 
Out  of  thy  province  ? 

Roger  of  York.     Why  dost  thou  presume, 
Arm'd  with  thy  cross,  to  come  before  the  King? 

FOLIOT.     As  Chancellor  thou  wast  against  the  Church, 
Now  as  Archbishop  goest  against  the  King  ; 
For,  like  a  fool,  thou  know'st  no  middle  way. 
Ay,  ay!  but  art  thou  stronger  than  the  King? 

Becket.     Strong — not  in   mine  own  self,  but  Heaven; 
true 
To  either  function,  holding  it ;  and  thou 
Fast,  scourge  thyself,  and  mortify  thy  flesh. 
Not  spirit — thou  remainest  Gilbert  Foliot. 
Get  ye  hence, 
Tell  what  I  say  to  the  King. 

{Exeunt  Hereford,  Foliot,  and  other  Bishops. 


NOTES.  497 

Roger  of  York.  The  Church  will  hate  thee. 

\_Exit. 
Becket.     Serve    my    best    friend    and    make     him    my 
worst  foe  ; 
Fight  for  the  Church,  and  set  the  Church  against  me  ! 

Herbert.     To  be  honest    is    to   set   all    knaves    against 
thee. 
Ah  !  Thomas,  excommunicate  them  all  ! 

FiTZURSE.     {Re-enter ingP^     My  lord,  the  King  demands 
three  hundred  marks. 
Due  from  his  castles  of  Berkhamstead  and  Eye 
When  thou  thereof  wast  warden. 

Becket.  Tell  the  King 

I  spent  thrice  that  in  fortifying  his  castles. 

De  Tracy.     {Re-entering?^     My  lord,  the  King  demands 
seven  hundred  marks. 
Lent  at  the  siege  of  Toulouse  by  the  King. 

Becket.      I  led  seven  hundred  knights  and  fought  his 

wars. 
De  Brito.     {Re-entering.']     My  lord,  the  King  demands 
five  hundred  marks. 
Advanced  thee  at  his  instance  by  the  Jews, 
For  which  the  King  was  bound  security. 

Becket.     I   thought  it  was  a  gift  ;    I  thought  it  was  a 
gift. 

Ettter  Lord  Leicester  {followed  by  Roger  of  York, 
Hilary,  Barons  and  Bishops). 

Leicester.     My  lord,  I  come  unwillingly.     The  King 
Demands  a  strict  account  of  all  those  revenues 
From  all  the  vacant  sees  and  abbacies, 
Which  came  into  thy  hands  when  Chancellor. 

VOL.   VL  2K 


498  BECKET. 

Becket.     How   much    might   that   amount   to,  my   lord 
Leicester  ? 

Leicester.     Some    thirty— forty  thousand    silver   marks. 

Becket.     Are  these  your  customs  ?     Grant  me  but  one 
day, 
To  ponder  these  demands. 

Leicester.                         Hear  first  thy  sentence  ! 
The  King  and  all  his  lords 

Becket.  Son,  first  hear  me  ! 

Leicester.  Nay,  but  hear  thy  judgment. 

The  King  and  all  his  barons 

Becket.  Judgment  !  Barons  ! 

Who  but  the  bridegroom  dares  to  judge  the  bride, 
Or  he  the  bridegroom  may  appoint  ?     Not  he 
That  is  not  of  the  house,  but  from  the  street, 
Stain'd  with  the  mire  thereof. 

I  will  not  stand 
By  the  King's  censure,  make  my  cry  to  the  Pope, 
By  whom  I  will  be  judged  ;  refer  myself, 
The  King,  these  customs,  all  the  Church,  to  him. 
And  under  his  authority— I  depart.  {Going. 

De  Brito,  Fitzurse,  De  Tracy,  and  others 
{flinging  ivisps  of  rushes). 

De  Brito,  etc.  Ay,  go  in  peace,  caitiff,  caitiff!  And 
that  too,  perjured  prelate— and  that,  turncoat  shaveling! 
There,  there,  there  !  traitor,  traitor,  traitor  ! 

Becket.     Mannerless  wolves  ! 

{Turning  and  facing  them. 
When  what  ye  shake  at  doth  but  seem  to  fly, 
True  test  of  coward,  ye  follow  with  a  yell. 


NOTES.  499 

Enter  Herald. 

Herald.     The  King  commands  you,  upon  pain  of  death, 
That  none  should  wrong  or  injure  your  Archbishop. 

\_Greai  doors  of  the  Hall  at  the  back  open,  and 
discover  a  crowd.     They  shout : 
Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

Becket.     The  voice  of  the  Lord  is  in  the  voice  of  the 
People ! 
The  voice  of  the  Lord  will  hush  the  hounds  of  Hell, 
That  ever  yelp  and  snarl  at  Holy  Church, 
In  everlasting  silence. 


ACT   II. 

Scene  i. — Rosamund's  Bower.  A  Garden  of  Flowers. 
In  the  midst  a  bank  of  wild-flowers  with  a  bench 
before  it. 

Enter  Henry  and  Rosamund. 

Rosamund.     My  own  true  liege  and  lord!     O  Henry — 
husband — 
Be  friends  with  him  again— I  do  beseech  thee. 

Henry.     With    Becket  ?     I    have    but    one    hour  with 
thee — 
Sceptre  and  crozier  clashing,  and  the  mitre 
Grappling  the  crown — and  when  I  flee  from  this 
For  a  gasp  of  freer  air,  a  breathing-while 
To  rest  upon  thy  bosom  and  forget  him — 
Why  thou,  my  bird,  thou  pipest  Becket,  Becket — 

Rosamund.     Let   there   not   be   one  frown   in   this   one 
hour. 
Out  of  the  many  thine,  let  this  be  mine  ! 

Henry.     Well,  well,  no  more  of  him — Fll  send  his  folk, 
His  kin,  all  his  belongings,  overseas ; 
Age,  orphans,  and  babe-breasting  mothers — all 
By  hundreds  to  him — there  to  beg,  starve,  die — 
The  man  shall  feel  that  I  can  strike  him  yet. 

Rosamund.     Babes,    orphans,    mothers !     is   that  royal, 
Sire  ? 

500 


NOTES.  50* 

Henry.  Traitress ! 

Rosamund.     A  faithful  traitress  to  tliy  royal  fame. 
Henry.     Fame  !  what  care  I  for  fame  ? 
Fame  of  to-day  is  infamy  to-morrow ; 
Infamy  of  to-day  is  fame  to-morrow  ; 
And  round  and  round  again.     What  matters  ?     Royal — 
I  mean  to  leave  the  royalty  of  my  crown 
Unlessen'd  to  mine  heirs. 

Rosamund.  Still— thy  fame  too  : 

I  say  that  should  be  royal. 

Henry.  And  I  say, 

I  care  not  for  thy  saying. 

Rosamund.  And  I  say, 

I  care  not  for  thy  saying. 

Henry.     Care  dwell  with  me  for  ever,  when  I  cease 
To  care  for  thee  as  ever ! 

Rosamund.  No  need  !  no  need !  .  .  . 

There  is  a  bench.     Come,  wilt  thou  sit  ?  .  .   .  My  bank 
Of  wild-flowers  \Jie  sits\.     At  thy  feet ! 

\She  sits  at  his  feet. 
Henry.  I  bad  them  clear 

A  royal  pleasaunce  for  thee,  in  the  wood, 
Not  leave  these  countryfolk  at  court. 

Rosamund.  I  brought  them 

In  from  the  wood,  and  set  them  here.     I  love  them 
More  than  the  garden  flowers,  that  seem  at  most 
Sweet  guests,  or  foreign  cousins,  not  half  speaking 
The  language  of  the  land.     I  love  them  too, 
Yes.     But,  my  liege,  I  am  sure,  of  all  the  roses- 
Shame  fall  on  those  who  gave  it  a  dog's  name — 
This  wild  one  {picking  a  briar-rose']— Wiy,  I  shall  not  prick 

myself — 
Is  sweetest.    Do  but  smell ! 


502  BECKET. 

Henry.  Thou  rose  of  the  world  ! 

Thou  rose  of  all  the  roses  ! — thine  !  thine  ! 

Rosamund.  I  know  it. 

Henry.     [Aluitering.']     Not   hers.      We   have  but   one 
bond,  her  hate  of  Becket. 

Rosamund.     {Half  hearing.'\     Nay!  nay!  what  art  thou 
muttering?     /hate  Becket? 
My  fault  to  name  him  !     O  let  the  hand  of  one 
To  whom  thy  voice  is  all  her  music,  stay  it 
But  for  a  breath.  {Ptds  her  hand  before  his  lips. 

Speak  only  of  thy  love. 
There  !  wherefore  dost  thou  so  peruse  it  ?     Nay, 
There  may  be  crosses  in  my  line  of  life. 

Henry.     No  mate  for  her,  if  it  should  come  to  that. 
Life  on  the  hand  is  naked  gipsy-stuff; 
Life  on  the  face,  the  brows — clear  innocence  ! 
Vein'd  marble — not  a  furrow  yet — and  hers 

\JMtittering. 
Crost  and  recrost,  a  venomous  spider's  web 

Rosamund.     {Springitig  ttp.']      Out   of  the  cloud,  my 
Sun — out  of  the  eclipse 
Narrowing  my  golden  hour  ! 

Henry.  O  Rosamund, 

I  would  be  true — would  tell  thee  all — and  something 
I  had  to  say — I  love  thee  none  the  less — 
Which  will  so  vex  thee. 

Rosamund.  Something  against  me  ? 

Henry.     No,  no,  against  myself. 

Rosamund.  I  will  not  hear  it. 

Come,  come,  mine  hour !     I  bargain  for  mine  hour, 
ril  call  thee  little  Geoffrey. 

Henry.  Call  him  ! 

Rosamund.  Geoffrey ! 


NOTES.  503 

Henry.     {Looking  ojf.']     How  the  boy  grows  ! 
Rosamund.  Ay,  and  his  brows  are  thine ; 

The  mouth  is  only  Clifford,  my  dear  father. 

Geoffrey  runs  on. 

Geoffrey.     My  liege,  what  hast  thou  brought  me  ? 

Henry.  Venal  imp  ! 

What  sayst  thou  to  the  Chancellorship  of  England  ? 

Geoffrey.     O  yes,  my  liege. 

Henry.  "  O  yes,  my  liege  ! "     He  speaks 

As  if  it  were  a  cake  of  gingerbread. 

Dost  thou  know,  my  boy,  what  it  is  to  be  Chancellor 
of  England  ? 

Geoffrey.     Something  good,  or  thou  wouldst  not  give 

it  me. 

Henry.  It  is,  my  boy,  to  side  with  the  King  when 
Chancellor,  and  then  to  be  made  Archbishop  and  go 
against  the  King  who  made  him,  and  turn  the  world 
upside  down. 

Geoffrey.  I  won't  have  it  then.  Nay,  but  give  it  me, 
and  I  promise  thee  not  to  turn  the  world  upside  down. 

Henry.  [Giving  hint  a  ball.l  Here  is  a  ball,  my  boy, 
thy  world,  to  turn  any  way  and  play  with  as  thou  wilt — 
which  is  more  than  I  can  do  with  mine.  Go  try  it, 
play.  \_Exit  Geoffrey. 

A  pretty  lusty  boy. 

Rosamund.  So  like  to  thee ; 

Like  to  be  liker. 

Henry.  Not  in  my  chin,  I  hope  ! 

That  threatens  double. 

Rosamund.  Thou  art  manlike  perfect. 

Henry.  Ay,  ay,  no  doubt;  and  were  I  humpt  behind, 
Thou'dst  say  as  much — the  goodly  way  of  women 


504  BECKET. 

Who  love,  for  which  I  love  them.     May  God  grant 
No  ill  befall  or  him  or  thee  when  I 
Am  gone. 

Rosamund.     Is  he  thy  enemy  ? 

Henry.  He  ?  who  ?  ay  ! 

Rosamund.     Thine     enemy    knows    the    secret     of    my 
bower. 

Henry.     And  I  could  tear  him  asunder  with  wild  horses, 
Before  he  would  betray  it.     Nay — no  fear  ! 
More  like  is  he  to  excommunicate  me. 

Rosamund.     And  I  would  creep,  crawl   over  knife-edge 
flint 
Barefoot,  a  hundred  leagues,  to  stay  his  hand 
Before  he  flash 'd  the  bolt. 

Henry.  And  when  he  flashed  it 

Shrink  from  me,  like  a  daughter  of  the  Church. 

Rosamund.     Ay,  but  he  will  not. 

Henry.  Ay,  but  if  he  did  ? 

Rosamund.     O  then  !  O  then  !     I  almost  fear  to  say 
That  my  poor  heretic  heart  would  excommunicate 
His  excommunication,  clinging  to  thee 
Closer  than  ever. 

Henry.     {Raising   Rosamund    and  kissing  her.']     My 
brave-hearted  Rose  ! 
Hath  he  ever  been  to  see  thee  ? 

Rosamund.  Here  ?  not  he. 

And  it  is  so  lonely  here — no  confessor. 

Henry.     Thou  shalt  confess  all  thy  sweet  sins  to  me. 

Rosamund.     Besides,    we    came    away    in    such   a  heat, 
I  brought  not  ev'n  my  crucifix. 

Henry.  Take  this. 

{Giving  her  the  Crucifix  which  Eleanor 
gave  him. 


NOTES.  505 

Rosamund.     O  beautiful  !     May  I  have  it   as    mine,  till 
mine 
Be  mine  again  ? 

Henry.     {Throwing  it  round  her  neck.']     Thine — as  I 
am — till  death  ! 

Rosamund.     Death  ?    no  !     Fll  have  it  with   me   in   my 
shroud, 
And  wake  with  it,  and  show  it  to  all  the  Saints. 

Henry.     Nay — I  must  go;  for  I  must  hence  to  brave 
The  Pope,  King  Louis,  and  this  turbulent  priest. 

Rosamund.     \Knecli]igP^     O  by  thy  love  for  me,  all  mine 
for  thee, 
Fling  not  thy  soul  into  the  flames  of  hell : 
I  kneel  to  thee — be  friends  with  him  again. 

Henry.     {Breaking  off  suddenly.']     Let  it   content   you 
now 
There  is  no  woman  that  I  love  so  well. 

Rosamund.     No  woman   but    should    be    content  with 
that— 

Henry.     And  one  fair  child  to  fondle  ! 

Rosamund.  O  yes,  the  child 

We  waited  for  so  long — heaven's  gift  at  last — 
And  how  you  doated  on  him  then  !     To-day 
I  almost  fear'd  your  kiss  was  colder — yes — 
But  then  the  child  is  such  a  child.     What  chance 
That  he  should  ever  spread  into  the  man 
Here  in  our  silence  ?     I  have  done  my  best, 
I  am  not  learned. 

Henry.  I  am  the  King,  his  father. 

And  I  will  look  to  it. 

Rosamund.  iVIust  you  go,  my  liege, 

So  suddenly  ? 

Henry.        I  came  to  England  suddenly, 


5o5  BECKET. 

I  needs  must  leave  as  suddenly.     It  is  raining, 
Put  on  your  hood  and  see  me  to  the  bounds. 
Look,  look  !  if  little  Geoffrey  have  not  tost 
His  ball  into  the  brook  !  makes  after  it  too 
To  find  it.     Why,  the  child  will  drown  himself. 

Rosamund.     Geoffrey  !  Geoffrey  !  \_Exemit. 

Margerv.     [Singing  behind  scene.'\ 

Babble  in  bower 

Under  the  rose ! 
Bee  mustn't  buzz, 

Whoop — but  he  knows. 

Kiss  me,  little  one, 

Nobody  near  ! 
Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 

Whoop — you  can  hear. 

Kiss  in  the  bower, 

Tit  on  the  tree  ! 
Bird  mustn't  tell, 

Whoop — he  can  see. 

Enter  Margery  {chattering'). 

I  ha'  been  but  a  week  here  and  I  ha'  seen  what  I  ha' 
seen,  for  to  be  sure  it's  no  more  than  a  week  since  our  old 
Father  Philip  that  has  confessed  our  mother  for  twenty 
years,  and  she  was  hard  put  to  it,  and  to  speak  truth,  nigh 
at  the  end  of  our  last  crust,  and  that  mouldy,  and  she  cried 
out  on  him  to  put  me  forth  in  the  world  and  to  make  me  a 
woman  of  the  world,  and  to  win  my  own  bread,  whereupon 
he  asked  our  mother  if  I  could  keep  a  quiet  tongue  i'  my 
head,  and  not  speak  till  I  was  spoke  to,  and  I  answered 
for  myself  that  I  never  spoke  more  than  was   needed,  and 


NOTES.  507 

he  told  me  he  would  advance  me  to  the  service  of  a  great 
lady,  and  took  me  ever  so  far  away,  and  the  more  shame 
to  him  after  his  promise,  into  a  garden  and  not  into  the 
world,  and  bad  me  whatever  I  saw  not  to  speak  one  word, 
and  I  ha'  seen  what  I  ha'  seen,  and  what's  the  good  of 
my  talking  to  myself,  for  here  comes  my  lady  [enter 
Rosamund],  and,  my  lady,  tho'  I  shouldn't  speak  one 
word,  I  wish  you  joy  o'  the  King's  brother, 

Rosamund.     What  is  it  you  mean  ? 

Margery.  I  mean  your  goodman,  your  husband,  my  lady, 
for  I  saw  your  ladyship  a-parting  wi'  him  even  now  i'  the 
coppice,  when  I  was  a-getting  o'  bluebells  for  your  ladyship's 
nose  to  smell  on — and  I  ha'  seen  the  King  once  at  Oxford, 
and  he's  as  like  the  King  as  fingernail  to  fingernail,  and  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  the  King,  only  you  know  the  King's 
married,  for  King  Louis 

Rosamund.     Married ! 

Margery.  Years  and  years,  my  lady,  for  her  husband, 
King  Louis 


Rosamund.     Hush  ! 

Margery.     And    I   thought   if  it  were    the    King's 

brother  he  had  a  better  bride  than  the  King,  for  the  people 
do  say  that  his  is  bad  beyond  all  reckoning,  and 

Rosamund.     The  people  lie. 

Margery.  Very  like,  my  lady,  but  most  on  'em  know 
an  honest  woman  and  a  lady  when  they  see  her,  and  besides 
they  say,  she  makes  songs,  and  that's  against  her,  for  I 
never  knew  an  honest  woman  that  could  make  songs,  tho' 
to  be  sure  our  mother  'ill  sing  me  old  songs  by  the  hour, 
but  then,  God  help  her,  she  had  'em  from  her  mother,  and 
her  mother  from  her  mother  back  and  back  for  ever  so 
long,  but  none  on  'em  ever  made  songs,  and  they  were  ail 
honest. 


So8  BECKET. 

Rosamund.  Go,  you  shall  tell  me  of  her  some  other 
time. 

Margery.  There's  none  so  much  to  tell  on  her,  my 
lady,  only  she  kept  the  seventh  commandment  better  than 
some  I  know  on,  or  I  couldn't  look  your  ladyship  i'  the  face, 
and  she  brew'd  the  best  ale  in  all  Glo'ster,  that  is  to  say  in 
her  time  when  she  had  the  "  Crown." 

Rosamund.     The  crown  !  who  1 

Margery.     Mother. 

Rosamund.  I  mean  her  whom  you  call — fancy — my 
husband's  brother's  wife. 

Margery.  Oh,  Queen  Eleanor.  Yes,  my  lady;  and 
tho'  I  be  sworn  not  to  speak  a  word,  I  can  tell  you  all  about 
her,  if 

Rosamund.     No    word    now.     I    am    faint    and    sleepy. 
Leave  me.     Nay— go.     I  am  in  the  dark.      \^Exit  Margery. 
He  charged  me  not  to  question  any  of  those 
About  me.     Have  I  ?   she  questioned  7iie. 
1  have  lived,  poor  bird,  from  cage  to  cage,  and  known 
Nothing  but  him — happy  to  know  no  more, 
So  that  he  loved  me — and  he  loves  me — yes, 
And  bound  me  by  his  love  to  secrecy 
Till  his  own  time. 

Eleanor,  Eleanor,  have  I 
Not  heard  ill  things  of  her  in  France  ?     Oh,  she's 
The  Queen  of  France.     I  see  it — some  confusion, 
Some  strange  mistake.     I  did  not  hear  aright, 
Myself  confused  with  parting  from  the  King. 
Yet  her— what  her  ?  he  hinted  of  some  her— 
When  he  was  here  before — 

Something  that  would  displease  me.     Hath  he  stray'd 
From  love's  clear  path  into  the  common  bush, 
And,  being  scratched,  returns  to  his  true  rose. 


NOTES.  509 

Who  hath  not  thorn  enough  to  prick  him  for  it, 

Ev'n  with  a  word  ? 

I  would  not  hear  him.     Nay — there's  more — there's  more 

"  No  mate  for  her,  if  it  should  come  to  that '' — 

To  that— to  what  ? 

O  God  !  some  dreadful  truth  is  breaking  on  me — 

Some  dreadful  thing  is  coming  on  me. 


\_Enter  Geoffrey. 
GeolTrey  I 
Geoffrey.     What    are    you    crying    for,  when   the   sun 
shines  ? 

Rosamund.     Hath  not  thy  father  left  us  to  ourselves  ? 
Geoffrey.     Ay,  but   he's   taken   the   rain   with    him.     I 
hear  Margery  :  Til  go  play  with  her.  [Exit  Geoffrey. 

Rosamund.        Rainbow,  stay. 

Gleam  upon  gloom, 
Bright  as  my  dream, 
Rainbow,  stay  ! 
But  it  passes  away. 
Gloom  upon  gleam. 
Dark  as  my  doom — 
O  rainbow  stay. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  i. — Montmirail.     "  The  Meetiftg  of  the  Kings^ 
Louis  of  France.     Crowd  in  the  distance. 

Louis.  Becket,  my  friend  of  friends !  I  must  save 
him  from  my  brother  Henry — and  I  have  asked  him  to 
meet  the  Archbishop  here.  Surely  thro'  Henry's  savagery 
he  and  his  friends  would  have  starved  in  banishment  but 
for  my  giving  them  food  and  home.  Henry's  mood  of 
wrath  continues  yet,  and  he  has  made  York,  in  defiance 
of  Canterbury,  crown  young  Henry.  Therefore  our  holy 
Becket  keeps  the  threat  of  the  Pope  over  England.  Now 
is  the  time  to  patch  up  a  peace.  If  we  steer  well,  young 
Henry,  whom  Becket  loves,  will  serve  our  Becket's  and  the 
Church's  cause,  and  all  will  yet  be  well. 

Enter  Henry. 

Henry.     Brother   of  France,   what  shall   be   done  with 
Becket  ? 

Louis.     The  holy  Thomas  !     Brother,  you  have  trafiSck'd 
Between  the  Emperor  and  the  Pope,  between 
The  Pope  and  Antipope — a  perilous  game 
For  men  to  play  with  God. 

Henry.  Ay,  ay,  good  brother, 

They  call  you  the  Monk-King. 

Louis.  Who  calls  me  ?  she 

510 


NOTES.  511 

That  was  my  wife,  now  yours  ?     You  have  her  Duchy, 
The  point  you  aim'd  at,  and  pray  God  she  prove 
True  wife  to  you. 

Henry.  Tut,  tut !  did  we  convene 

This  conference  but  to  babble  of  our  wives  ? 
They  are  plagues  enough  in-door. 

Louis.     Well,   well,    no    more  !      I    am    proud    of    my 
"  Monk-King," 
Whoever  named  me  ;  and,  brother.  Holy  Church 
May  rock,  but  will  not  wreck,  nor  our  Archbishop 
Stagger  on  the  slope  decks  for  any  rough  sea 
Blown  by  the  breath  of  kings.     Restore  his  kin. 
Reseat  him  on  his  throne  of  Canterbury, 
Be,  both,  the  friends  you  were. 

Henry.  The  friends  we  were  ! 

The  world  had  never  seen  the  like  before. 
You  are  too  cold  to  know  the  fashion  of  it. 
Well,  well,  we  will  be  gentle  with  him,  gracious — 
Most  gracious. 

[Voices  from  the  Crowd,  "Blessed  be  the 
Lord  Archbishop." 

Enter  Becket,  after  him  John  of    Oxford,   Roger  of 
York,  Gilbert  Foliot,  De  Broc,  Fitzurse,  etc. 

Only  that  the  rift  he  made 
May  close  between  us,  here  I  am  wholly  king, 
The  word  should  come  from  him. 

Becket.     [Kneeling.']  Then,  my  dear  liege, 

I  here  dehver  all  this  controversy 
Into  your  royal  hands. 

Henry.  Ah,  Thomas,  Thomas, 

Thou  art  thyself  again,  Thomas  again. 

Becket.     [Risitig.]     Saving  God's  honour ! 


512  BECKET. 

Henry.  Out  upon  thee,  man  ! 

Saving  the  DeviPs  honour,  his  yes  and  no. 
Brother  of  France,  you  have  taken,  cherish'd  him 
Who  thief-like  fled  from  his  own  church  by  night. 
No  man  pursuing.     I  vi^ould  have  had  him  back. 
Take  heed  he  do  not  turn  and  rend  you  too. 
Yet,  yet — that  none  may  dream 
I  go  against  God's  honour — ay,  or  himself 
In  any  reason,  choose 

A  hundred  of  the  wisest  heads  from  England, 
A  hundred,  too,  from  Normandy  and  Anjou : 
Let  these  decide  on  what  was  customary 
In  olden  days,  and  all  the  Church  of  France 
Decide  on  their  decision,  I  am  content. 

Louis.     Ay,  ay  !  the  King  humbles  himself  enough. 

Becket.     {^Aside-I       Words,    words !       \_Aloud:\       My 
lieges  and  my  lords. 
The  thanks  of  Holy  Church  are  due  to  those 
That  went  before  us  for  their  work,  which  we 
Inheriting  reap  an  easier  harvest.     Yet 

Louis.     My  lord,  will  you  be  greater  than  the  Saints, 
More  than  St.  Peter  ?  whom what  is  it  you  doubt  ? 

Becket.     O  good  son  Louis,  do  not  counsel  me, 
No,  to  suppress  God's  honour  for  the  sake 
Of  any  king  that  breathes.     No,  God  forbid  ! 

Henry.     No  !  God  forbid  !  and  turn  me  Mussulman  ! 
No  God  but  one,  and  Mahound  is  his  prophet. 
But  for  your  Christian,  look  you,  you  shall  have 
None  other  God  but  me — me,  Thomas,  son 
Of  Gilbert  Becket,  London  merchant.     Out  ! 
I  hear  no  more.  {Exit. 

Louis.  Our  brother's  anger  puts  him, 

Poor  man,  beside  himself— not  wise.     My  lord, 


NOTES.  513 

We  have  claspt  your  cause,  believing  that  our  brother 

Had  wrongM  you  ;  but  this  day  he  proffer'd  peace. 

You  will  have  war ;  and  tho"  we  gi-ant  the  Church 

King  over  this  world's  kings,  yet,  my  good  lord, 

We  that  are  kings  are  something  in  this  world, 

And  so  we  pray  you,  draw  yourself  from  under 

The  wings  of  France.     We  shelter  you  no  more.  {Exit. 

John  of  Oxford.     I  am  glad  that  France  hath  scouted 
him  at  last : 
I  told  the  Pope  what  manner  of  man  he  was.  \Eocit. 

Roger  of  York.     Yea,  since  he  flouts  the  will  of  either 
realm, 
Let  either  cast  him  away  like  a  dead  dog  !  \^Exit. 

FoLiOT.     Yea,  let  a  stranger  spoil  his  heritage. 
And  let  another  take  his  bishoprick  !  'lExit. 

De  Broc.     Our  castle,  my  lord,  belongs  to  Canterbury. 
I  pray  you  come  and  take  it.  {Exit. 

Fitzurse.  When  you  will.  {Exit. 

Becket.     Cursed  be  John  of  Oxford,  Roger  of  York, 
And  Gilbert  Foliot  !  cursed  those  De  Brocs  ! 
Cursed  Fitzurse,  and  all  the  rest  of  them 
That  feed  this  hate  between  my  liege  and  me, 
And  trample  on  the  rights  of  Englishmen  ! 
See  here  ! 

Herbert.     What's  here  ? 

Becket.  A  notice  from  the  priest. 

To  whom  our  John  of  Salisbury  committed 
The  secret  of  the  bower,  that  our  wolf-Queen 
Is  prowhng  round  the  fold.     I  should  be  back 
In  England  ev'n  for  this. 

Herbert.  These  are  by-things 

In  the  great  cause. 

Becket.  The  by-things  of  the  Lord 


VOL.  VI.  2L 


514 


BECKET. 


Are  the  wrong'd  innocences  that  will  cry 
From  all  the  hidden  by-ways  of  the  world 
In  the  great  day  against  the  wronger. 

Herbert.  The  King  ! 

Re-enter  King  Henry. 

Henry.     We  have  had  so  many  hours  together,  Thomas, 
So  many  happy  hours  alone  together, 
That  I  would  speak  with  you  once  more  alone. 

Becket.     Send  back  again  those  exiles  of  my  kin 
Who  wander  famine-wasted  thro'  the  world. 

Henry.     Have  I  not  promised,  man,  to  send  them  back  ? 

Becket.     Yet  one  thing  more.     Thou  hast  broken  thro' 
the  pales 
Of  privilege,  crowning  thy  young  son  by  York, 
London,  and  Salisbury' — not  Canterbury. 

Henry.     York  crown'd  the  Conqueror — not  Canterbury. 

Becket.     There  was  no  Canterbury  in  William's  time. 

Henry.      But   Hereford,    you    know,    crown'd    the    first 
Henry. 

Becket.     And  Anselm  crown'd  this  Henry  o'er  again. 

Henry.     And  thou  shalt  crown  my  Henry  o'er  again. 

Becket.     And  is  it  then  with  thy  good-will  that  I 
Proceed  against  thine  evil  councillors. 
And  hurl  the  dread  ban  of  the  Church  on  those 
Who  made  the  second  mitre  play  the  first, 
And  acted  me  ? 

Henry.  Well,  well,  then — have  thy  way  ! 

It  may  be  they  were  evil  councillors. 
What  more,  my  lord  Archbishop  ?     What  more,  Thomas  ? 
1  make  thee  full  amends.     Say  all  thy  say, 
l!ut  blaze  not  out  before  the  Frenchmen  here. 

Becket.     More  ?     Nothing,  so  thy  promise  be  thy  deed. 


NOTES.  515 

Henry.     Give  me  thy  hand.     My  Lords  of  France  and 
England, 
My  friend  of  Canterbury  and  myself 
Are  now  once  more  at  perfect  amity. 
Unkingly  should  I  be,  and  most  unknightly, 
Not  striving  still,  however  much  in  vain, 
To  rival  him  in  Christian  charity. 
And  so  farewell,  untU  we  meet  in  England. 

Becket.     Farewell,  my  liege  ! 

{Exit  Henry,  then  the  Barons  and  Bishops. 

Herbert.  Did  the  King  speak  of  the  customs  ? 

Becket.    No  ! 
The  State  will  die,  the  Church  can  never  die. 
The  King's  not  like  to  die  for  that  which  dies ; 
But  I  must  die  for  that  which  never  dies. 
It  will  be  so — my  visions  in  the  Lord. 
And  when  my  voice 

Is  martyred  mute,  and  this  man  disappears, 
That  perfect  trust  may  come  again  between  us. 
The  crowd  are  scattering,  let  us  move  away ! 
And  thence  to  England. 

Scene  2. — Outside  the  Woods  near  Rosamund's  Bower. 

Eleanor.    Fitzurse. 

Eleanor.     Up  from  the  salt  lips  of  the  land  we  two 
Have  track'd  the  King  to  this  dark  inland  wood ; 
And  somewhere  hereabouts  he  vanished.     Here 
His  turtle  builds  :  his  exit  is  our  adit : 
Watch  !  he  will  out  again,  and  presently. 

\_A  great  horn  winded. 

Fitzurse.  Hark  !     Madam  ! 


5i6  BECKET. 

Eleanor.  Ay, 

How  ghostly  sounds  that  horn  in  the  black  wood  ! 

{^A  Countryman  /lying. 
Whither  away,  man  ?  what  are  you  flying  from  ? 

Countryman.  The  witch !  the  witch  !  she  sits  naked 
by  a  great  heap  of  gold  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  and  when 
the  horn  sounds  she  comes  out  as  a  wolf.  Get  you  hence  !  a 
man  passed  in  there  to-day :  I  holla'd  to  him,  but  he  didn't 
hear  me :  he'll  never  out  again,  the  witch  has  got  him.  I 
daren't  stay — I  daren't  stay  ! 

Eleanor.     Kind  of  the  witch  to  give  thee  warning,  tho'. 

[Man  flies. 
Is  not  this  wood-witch  of  the  rustic's  fear 
Our  woodland  Circe  that  hath  witch'd  the  King  ? 

{Horn  sounded.     Another  flying. 

FiTZURSE.     Again !     stay,    fool,    and    tell    me    why  thou 
fliest. 

Countryman.  Fly  thou  too.  The  King  keeps  his 
forest  head  of  game  here,  and  when  that  horn  sounds,  a 
score  of  wolf-dogs  are  let  loose  that  will  tear  thee  piecemeal. 
Linger  not  till  the  third  horn.     Fly  !  [Exit. 

Eleanor.  This  is  the  likelier  tale.  We  have  hit  the 
place.     Now  let  the  King's  fine  game  look  to  itself. 

[Horn. 

FiTZURSE.     Again ! — 
And  far  on  in  the  dark  heart  of  the  wood 
I  hear  the  yelping  of  the  hounds  of  hell. 

Eleanor.     I  have  my  dagger  here  to  still  their  throats. 

FiTZURSE.     Nay,    Madam,    not    to-night — the     night    is 
falling. 
What  can  be  done  to-night  ? 

Eleanor.  Well— well— away. 

[Exit  FiTZURSE. 


NOTES.  517 

Geoffrey.  {Coming  out  of  the  7vood^  Light  again  ! 
light  again  !  Margery  ?  no,  that's  a  finer  thing  there. 
How  it  glitters  ! 

Eleanor.  Come  to  me,  little  one.  How  earnest  thou 
hither  ? 

Geoffrey.     On  my  legs. 

Eleanor.  And  mighty  pretty  legs  too.  Thou  art  the 
prettiest  child  I  ever  saw.     Wilt  thou  love  me  ? 

Geoffrey.     No  ;  I  only  love  mother. 

Eleanor.     Ay  ;  and  who  is  thy  mother  ? 

Geoffrey.     They   call    her But    she    lives    secret, 

you  see. 

Eleanor.     Why  ? 

Geoffrey.     Don't  know  why. 

Eleanor.  Ay,  but  some  one  comes  to  see  her  now 
and  then.     Who  is  he  ? 

Geoffrey.    Can't  tell. 

Eleanor.     What  does  she  call  him  ? 

Geoffrey.     My  liege. 

Eleanor.     Pretty  one,  how  earnest  thou  ? 

Geoffrey.  There  was  a  bit  of  yellow  silk  here  and 
there,  and  it  looked  pretty  like  a  glowworm,  and  I  thought 
if  I  followed  it  I  should  find  the  fairies. 

Eleanor.  I  am  the  fairy,  pretty  one,  a  good  fairy  to 
thy  mother.     Take  me  to  her. 

Geoffrey.  There  are  good  fairies  and  bad  fairies,  and 
sometimes  she  cries,  and  can't  sleep  sound  o'  nights  because 
of  the  bad  fairies. 

Eleanor.  She  shall  cry  no  more  ;  she  shall  sleep 
sound  enough  if  thou  wilt  take  me  to  her.  I  am  her  good 
fairy. 

Geoffrey.  But  you  don't  look  like  a  good  fairy. 
Mother  does.     You  are  not  pretty,  like  mother. 


5l8  BECKET. 

Eleanor.  We  can't  all  of  us  be  as  pretty  as  thou 
art — {aside~\  little  bastard.  Show  me  where  thou  earnest 
out  of  the  wood. 

Geoffrey.  By  this  tree  ;  but  I  don't  know  if  I  can 
find  the  way  back  again.  \^Exeunt. 

Scene  3. — Rosamund's  Bower. 

Rosamund.     The  boy  so  late  ;  pray  God,  he  be  not  lost. 
I  sent  this  Margery,  and  she  comes  not  back ; 
I  sent  another,  and  she  comes  not  back. 
I  go  myself — so  many  alleys,  crossings, 
Paths,  avenues — nay,  if  I  lost  him,  now 
The  folds  have  fallen  from  the  mystery, 
And  left  all  naked,  I  were  lost  indeed. 

Enter  Geoffrey  and  Eleanor. 

Geoffrey,  the  pain  thou  hast  put  me  to  ! 

[^Seeing  Eleanor. 
Ha,  you  ! 
How  came  you  hither  ? 

Eleanor.  Your  own  child  brought  me  hither  ! 

Geoffrey.  You  said  you  couldn't  trust  Margery,  and 
I  watched  her  and  followed  her  into  the  woods,  and  I  lost 
her  and  went  on  and  on  till  I  found  the  light  and  the  lady, 
and  she  says  she  can  make  you  sleep  o'  nights. 

Rosamund.      How    dared    you  ?      Know    you    not    this 
bower  is  secret. 
Of  and  belonging  to  the  King  of  England, 
More  sacred  than  his  forests  for  the  chase  ? 
Nay,  nay,  Heaven  help  you ;  get  you  hence  in  haste 
Lest  worse  befall  you. 

Eleanor.  Child,  I  am  mine  own  self 


NOTES.  519 

Of  and  belonging  to  the  King.     The  King 
Hath  divers  ofs  and  ons,  ofs  and  belongings, 
Almost  as  many  as  your  true  Mussulman — 
Belongings,  paramours,  whom  it  pleases  him 
To  call  his  wives  ;  but  so  it  chances,  child, 
That  I  am  his  main  paramour,  his  sultana. 
But  since  the  fondest  pair  of  doves  will  jar, 
Ev'n  in  a  cage  of  gold,  we  had  words  of  late, 
And  thereupon  he  caird  my  children  bastards. 
Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married  to  him  ? 

Rosamund.     I  should  believe  it. 

Eleanor.  You  must  not  believe  it, 

Because  I  have  a  wholesome  medicine  here 
Puts  that  belief  asleep.     Your  answer,  beauty  ! 
Do  you  beheve  that  you  are  married  to  him  ? 

Rosamund.  Geoffrey,  my  boy,  I  saw  the  ball  you  lost 
in  the  fork  of  the  gi^eat  willow  over  the  brook.  Go.  See 
that  you  do  not  fall  in.     Go. 

Geoffrey.  And  leave  you  alone  with  the  good  fairy. 
She  calls  you  beauty,  but  I  don't  like  her  looks. 

Rosamund.    Go.  {Exit  Geoffrey. 

Eleanor.     He  is  easily  found  again.     Do  you  believe  it  ? 
I  pray  you  then  to  take  my  sleeping-draught ; 
But  if  you  should  not  care  to  take  it — see ! 

\praws  a  dagger. 
What  !  have  I  scared  the  red  rose  from  your  face 
Into  your  heart.     But  this  will  find  it  there, 
And  dig  it  from  the  root  for  ever. 

Rosamund.  Help  !  help  ! 

Eleanor.     They  say  that    walls    have    ears ;    but  these, 
it  seems. 
Have  none  !  and  I  have  none — to  pity  thee. 

Rosamund.     I  do  beseech  you — my  child  is  so  young. 


520  BECKET. 

1  am  not  so  happy  I  could  not  die  myself, 

But  the  child  is  so  young.     You  have  children — his ; 

And  mine  is  the  King's  child  ;  so,  if  you  love  him — 

Nay,  if  you  love  him,  there  is  great  wrong  done 

Somehow ;  but  if  you  do  not — there  are  those 

Who  say  you  do  not  love  him — let  me  go 

With  my  young  boy,  and  God  will  be  our  guide, 

And  I  will  beg  my  bread  along  the  world. 

I  never  meant  you  harm  in  any  way. 

See,  I  can  say  no  more. 

Eleanor.     Will   you   not   say   you   are   not   married   to 
him? 

Rosamund.     Ay,  Madam,  I  can  say  it,  if  you  will. 

Eleanor.     Then  is  thy  pretty  boy  a  bastard? 

Rosamund.  No. 

Eleanor.     And  thou  thyself  a  proven  wanton? 

Rosamund.  No. 

I  am  none  such.     I  never  loved  but  one. 
I  have  heard  of  such  that  range  from  love  to  love. 
Like  the  wild  beast — if  you  can  call  it  love. 
I  have  heard  of  such — yea,  even  among  those 
Who  sit  on  thrones — I  never  saw  any  such. 
Never  knew  any  such,  and  howsoever 
You  do  misname  me,  match'd  with  any  such, 
I  am  snow  to  mud. 

Eleanor.   The  more  the  pity  then 
That  thy  true  home — the  heavens — cry  out  for  thee 
Who  art  too  pure  for  earth. 

Enter  FiTZURSE. 

FiTZURSE.  Give  her  to  me. 

Eleanor.     The  Judas-lover  of  our  passion-play 
Hath  tracked  us  hither. 


NOTES.  521 

FiTZURSE.  Well,  why  not?     I  followed 

You  and  the  child :  he  babbled  all  the  way. 
Give  her  to  me  to  make  my  honeymoon. 

Eleanor.  No! 

I  follow  out  my  hate  and  thy  revenge. 

FiTZURSE.     You  bad  me  take  revenge  another  way — 
To  bring  her  to  the  dust.  .   .  .  Come  with  me,  love, 
And  I  will  love  thee.  .   .  .  Madam,  let  her  live. 
I  have  a  far-off  burrow  where  the  King 
Would  miss  her  and  for  ever. 

Rosamund.     Give  me  the  poison  ;  set  me  free  of  him! 

[Eleanor  offers  the  vial. 
No,  no!  I  will  not  have  it. 

Eleanor.  Then  this  other, 

The  wiser  choice,  because  my  sleeping-draught 
May  bloat  thy  beauty  out  of  shape,  and  make 
Thy  body  loathsome  even  to  thy  child ; 
While  this  but  leaves  thee  with  a  broken  heart, 
A  doll-face  blanched  and  bloodless,  over  which 
If  pretty  Geoffrey  do  not  break  his  own, 
It  must  be  broken  for  him. 

Rosamund.  Oh,  I  see  now 

Your  purpose  is  to  fright  me — a  troubadour 
You  play  with  words.     You  had  never  used  so  many, 
Not  if  you  meant  it,  I  am  sure.     The  child  .  .  . 
No  .   .  .  mercy!     No!  {Kneels. 

Eleanor.  Play!  .  .  .  that  bosom  never 

Heaved  under  the  King's  hand  with  such  true  passion 
As  at  this  loveless  knife  that  stirs  the  riot. 
Which  it  will  quench  in  blood!     Slave,  if  he  love  thee, 
Thy  life  is  worth  the  wrestle  for  it :  what's  here  ? 
By  very  God,  the  cross  I  gave  the  King! 
His  village  darling  in  some  lewd  caress 


522  BECKET. 

Has  wheedled  it  off  the  King's  neck  to  her  own. 
By  thy  leave,  beauty.     Ay,  the  same !     Fitzurse, 
The  running  down  the  chase  is  kindlier  sport 
Ev'n  than  the  death.     Take  thy  one  chance ; 
Catch  at  the  last  straw.     Kneel  to  thy  lord  Fitzurse; 
Crouch  even  because  thou  hatest  him  ;  fawn  upon  him 
For  thy  life  and  thy  son's. 

Rosamund.     {Rising^     I  am  a  Clifford, 
My  son  a  Clifford  and  Plantagenet. 
I  am  to  die  then,  tho'  there  stand  beside  thee 
One  who  might  grapple  with  thy  dagger,  if  he 
Had  aught  of  man,  or  thou  of  woman  ;  or  I 
Would  bow  to  such  a  baseness  as  would  make  me 
Most  worthy  of  it :  both  of  us  will  die. 
Strike! 

I  challenge  thee  to  meet  me  before  God. 
Answer  me  there. 

Eleanor.     {Raising  the  dagger?^     This  in   thy  bosom, 
fool, 
And  after  in  thy  bastard's ! 

Enter  Beckut  from  behitid.     Catches  Jiold  of  her  arm. 

Becket.  Murderess ! 

\The  dagger  falls ;  they  stare  at  one  another. 
After  a  pause. 
Eleanor.     My  lord,  we  know  you  proud  of  your  fine 
hand, 
But  having  now  admired  it  long  enough, 
We  find  that  it  is  mightier  than  it  seems — 
At  least  mine  own  is  frailer :  you  are  laming  it. 

Becket.     And  lamed  and  maim'd  to  dislocation,  better 
Than  raised  to  take  a  life  which  Henry  bad  me 


NOTES.  523 

Guard  from  the  stroke  that  dooms  thee  after  death 
To  wail  in  deathless  flame. 

Eleanor.     My  lord  Fitzurse. 

Becket.     He  too  !  what  dost  thou  here? 
Go,  lest  I  blast  thee  with  anathema 
And  make  thee  a  world's  horror. 

Fitzurse.  My  lord,  I  shall 

Remember  this. 

Becket.     I  do  remember  thee.  \^Exit  Fitzurse. 

\To  Eleanor]   Take  up  your  dagger;  put  it  in  the  sheath. 
\To  Rosamund]    Daughter,   the    world  hath   trick'd   thee, 

leave  it,  daughter. 
Come  thou  with  rae  to  Godstow  nunnery. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  i  . — Castle  in  N'ormandy .    King's  Chamber. 

Henry,  Roger  of  York,  Foliot,  Jocelyn  of 
Salisbury. 

Roger  of  York.     Nay,  nay,  my  liege, 
He  rides  abroad  with  armed  followers. 
Cursed  and  anathematised  us  right  and  left, 
Stirr'd  up  a  party  there  against  your  son — 

Henry.     Roger  of  York,  you  always  hated  him. 
Even  when  you  both  were  boys  at  Theobald's. 

Roger  of  York.     I  always  hated  boundless  arrogance. 

Henry.     I  cannot  think  he  moves  against  my  son, 
Knowing  right  well  with  what  a  tenderness 
He  loved  my  son. 

Roger  of  York.     Before  you  made  him  king. 
Crowning  thy  young  son  by  York, 
London,  and  Salisbury — not  Canterbury. 

Henry.     God's  eyes,  for  that  I  made  him  full  amends, 
Told  him  that  he  should  crown  my  Henry  o'er  again. 
What  would  ye  have  me  do  ? 

Roger   of   York.      Summon   your   barons ;    take  their 
counsel :  yet 
I  know — could  swear — as  long  as  Becket  breathes, 
Your  Grace  will  never  have  one  quiet  hour. 

524 


NOTES.  525 

Henry.     What  ?  .  .  .  Ay  .   .  .  but    pray  you    do    not 
work  upon  me. 
I  see  your  drift  ...  it  may  be  so  .   .  .  and  yet 
You  know  me  easily  anger'd.     Will  you  hence? 
He  shall  absolve  you  .   .  .  you  shall  have  redress. 
I  have  a  dizzying  headache.     Let  me  rest, 
ril  call  you  by  and  by. 

\_Exeunt  Roger  of  York,  Foliot,  and  Jocelyn 
OF  Salisbury. 
Would  he  were  dead  !     I  have  lost  all  love  for  him. 
If  God  would  take  him  in  some  sudden  way — 
Would  he  were  dead. 

De    Tracy.      \_Entering.'\       My   liege,     the     Queen     of 

England. 
Henry.    God's  eyes  ! 

Enter  Eleanor. 

Eleanor.  Of  England  ?     Say  of  Aquitaine. 

I  am  no  Queen  of  England.     I  had  dream'd 
I  was  the  bride  of  England,  and  a  queen. 

Henry.     And, — while   you   dream'd   you  were   the   bride 
of  England, — 
Stirring  her  baby-king  against  me  ?  ha  ! 

Eleanor.     I  dream'd  I  was  the  consort  of  a  king, 
Not  one  whose  back  his  priest  has  broken. 
The  brideless  Becket  is  thy  king  and  mine. 

Henry.     Methought  I  had  recover'd  of  the  Becket. 
What  game,  what  juggle,  what  devilry  are  you  playing  ? 
Why  do  you  thrust  this  Becket  on  me  again  ? 

Eleanor.     Why  ?  for  I  am  true  wife,  and  have  my  fears 
Lest  Becket  thrust  you  even  from  your  throne. 
Do  you  know  this  cross,  my  liege  ? 

Henry.     [Turning  his  head.']       Away!     Not  L 


526  BECKET. 

Eleanor.     Not  ev'n  the  central  diamond,  worth,  I  think, 
Half  of  the  Antioch  whence  I  had  it. 

Henry.  That  ? 

Eleanor.     I  gave  it  you,  and  you  your  paramour  ; 
She  sends  it  back,  as  being  dead  to  earth. 
So  dead  henceforth  to  you. 

Henry.  Dead  !  you  have  murder'd  her, 

Found  out  her  secret  bower  and  murder'd  her. 

Eleanor.     Your  Becket  knew  the  secret  of  your  bower. 

Henry.     {Calling  out.']     Ho    there!    thy  rest   of  life  is 
hopeless  prison. 

Eleanor.     First,   free    thy   captive   from  /ter   hopeless 
prison. 
Will  you  have  this  again  ? 

{Offering  the  cross.    He  dashes  it  down. 
St.  Cupid,  that  is  too  irreverent. 
Then  mine  once  more.  {Puts  it  on. 

Your  cleric  hath  your  lady. 
Hath  used  the  full  authority  of  his  Church 
To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery. 

Henry.     To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery! 
He  dared  not— liar  !  yet,  yet  I  remember — 
I  do  remember. 

He  bad  me  put  her  into  a  nunnery — 
Into  Godstow,  into  Hellstow,  Devils  tow  I 

Eleanor.     Aha! 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

Henry.     Sluggards  and  fools! 
The  slave  that  eat  my  bread  has  kick'd  his  King  I 
The  dog  I  cramm'd  with  dainties  worried  me  ! 
The  fellow  that  on  a  lame  jade  came  to  court, 
A  ragged  cloak  for  saddle — he,  he,  he — 


NOTES.  527 

I'll  have  her  out  again,  he  shall  absolve 

The  bishops — they  but  did  my  will — not  you — 

Sluggards  and  fools,  why  do  you  stand  and  stare  ? 

You    are    no    King's     men — you — you — you     are     Becket's 

men. 
Down  with  King  Henry!  up  with  the  Archbishop  ! 
Will  no  man  free  me  from  this  pestilent  priest?  \Exit. 

{The  Knights  draw  their  swords. 

Eleanor.     Are  ye  King's  men?     I  am  King's  woman,  I. 

The  Knights.     King's  men!    King's  men! 

Scene  2. — A  Room  in  Canterbury  Monastery. 

Becket  and  John  of  Salisbury. 

John    of    Salisbury.      Thomas,   I   would    thou    had'st 
return'd  to  England 
With  more  of  olive-branch  and  amnesty 
For  foes  at  home.     Thou  hast  raised  the  world  against  thee. 

Becket.     Why,  John,  my  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world. 

Enter  Rosamund. 

Rosamund.  Can  I  speak  with  you 

Alone,  my  father? 

Becket.  Come  you  to  confess  ? 

Rosamund.     Not  now. 

Becket.  Then  speak  ;  this  is  my  other  self. 

Who  like  my  conscience  never  lets  me  be. 

Rosamund.     I  know  him  ;  our  good  John  of  Salisbury. 

Becket.     Breaking  already  from  thy  noviciate 
To  plunge  into  this  bitter  world  again — 
These  wells  of  Marah.     I  am  grieved,  my  daughter. 
I  thought  that  I  had  made  a  peace  for  thee. 


528  BECKET. 

Rosamund.     Small    peace   was    mine    in    my   noviciate, 
father. 
Thro'  all  closed  doors  a  dreadful  whisper  crept 
That  thou  would'st  excommunicate  the  King. 
My  lord,  you  have  not  excommunicated  him? 
Oh,  if  you  have,  absolve  him  ! 

Becket.  Daughter,  daughter, 

Deal  not  with  things  you  know  not. 

Rosamund.  I  know  him. 

John  of   Salisbury.      No,   daughter,   you  mistake  our 
good  Archbishop ; 
He  thought  to  excommunicate  him — Thomas, 
You  could  not — old  affection  mastered  you, 
You  falter'd  into  tears. 

Rosamund.  God  bless  him  for  it. 

Becket.     Nay,  make  me  not  a  woman,  John  of  Salisbury, 
Nor  make  me  traitor  to  my  holy  office. 
Did  not  a  man's  voice  ring  along  the  aisle, 
"  The  King  is  sick  and  almost  unto  death." 
How  could  I  excommunicate  him  then? 

Rosamund.     And  wilt  thou  excommunicate  him  now? 

Becket.     Daughter,  my  time  is  short,  I  shall  not  do  it. 
And  were  it  longer — well — I  should  not  do  it. 

Rosamund.       Thanks    in    this   life,   and  in   the   life  to 
come. 

Becket.     Get  thee  back  to  thy  nunnery  with  all  haste ; 
Let  this  be  thy  last  trespass.     But  one  question- 
How  fares  thy  pretty  boy,  the  little  Geoffrey? 
Doth  he  remember  me  ? 

Rosamund.         I  warrant  him. 

Becket.  He  is  marvellously  like  thee. 

Rosamund.     Liker  the  King. 

Becket.  No,  daughter. 


NO  TES.  529 

Rosamund.  Ay,  but  wait. 

He  will  be  very  king. 

Becket.     Ev'n  so :    but  think   not   of  the  King :    fare- 
well! 

Rosamund.     My  lord,  the  city  is  full  of  armed  men. 

Becket.     Ev'n  so  :  farewell ! 

Rosamund.  I  will  but  pass  to  vespers 

And  breathe  one  prayer  for  my  Uege-Iord  the  King, 
His  child  and  mine  own  soul,  and  so  return. 

Becket.     Pray  for  me  too  :  much  need  of  prayer  have  I. 

[Rosamund  kneels  mid  goes. 

John  of  Salisbury.     What  noise  was  that? 

Becket.     I  once  was  out  with  Henry  in  the  days 
When  Henry  loved  me,  and  we  came  upon 
A  wild-fowl  sitting  on  her  nest,  so  still 
I  reach'd  my  hand  and  touch'd  ;  she  did  not  stir ; 
The  snow  had  frozen  round  her,  and  she  sat 
Stone-dead  upon  a  heap  of  ice-cold  eggs. 
Look!  how  this  love,  this  mother,  runs  thro'  all 
The  world  God  made — even  the  beast — the  bird! 

John  of  Salisbury.    Ay,  still  a  lover  of  the  beast  and 
bird? 
But  these  arm'd  men — will  you  not  hide  yourself? 

Becket.     There  was  a  little  fair-hair'd  Norman  maid 
Lived  in  my  mother's  house  :  if  Rosamund  is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports  her — she 
Was  the  world's  lily. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Ay,  and  what  of  her? 

Becket.     She  died  of  leprosy. 

John  of  Salisbury.  I  know  not  why 

You  call  these  old  things  back  again,  my  lord. 

Becket.     The  drowning  man,  they  say,  remembers  all 
The  chances  of  his  Ufe.  just  ere  he  dies. 

VOL.  VI.  2M 


530  BECKET. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Ay — but  these  arm'd  men — will 
you  drown  yourself  1 
He  loses  half  the  meed  of  martyrdom 
Who  will  be  martyr  when  he  might  escape. 

Becket.     What  day  of  the  week?     Tuesday? 

John  of  Salisbury.  Tuesday,  my  lord. 

Becket.     On  a  Tuesday  was  I  born,  and  on  a  Tuesday 
Baptized  ;  and  on  a  Tuesday  came  to  me 
The  ghostly  warning  of  my  martyrdom ; 
And  on  a  Tuesday 

Tracy  enters,  iheti  Fitzurse,  De  Brito,  aftd 
De  Morville.     Mo^ks  following. 

— on  a  Tuesday Tracy 

A  long  silence,  broken  by  Fitzurse,  sayifig, 
contemptuously, 

God  help  thee! 
My  lord,  we  bring  a  message  from  the  King 
Beyond  the  water ;  will  you  have  it  alone, 
Or  with  these  listeners  near  you  ? 

Becket.  As  you  will. 

Fitzurse.     Nay,  zsyou  will. 
Becket.  Nay,  as_y£7?<  will. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Why  then 

Better  perhaps  to  speak  with  them  apart. 
Let  us  withdraw. 

[All go  out  except  the  fo2ir  Knights  and  Becket. 
Fitzurse.  We  are  all  alone  with  him. 

Shall  I  not  smite  him  with  his  own  cross-staff  ? 

De  Morville.      No,  look!   the   door  is  open:   let   him 

be. 
Fitzurse.      The   King  condemns    your   excommunicat- 


NOTES.  531 

Becket.     This  is  no  secret,  but  a  public  matter, 
In  here  again! 

[John  of  Salisbury  and  Monks  return. 
Now,  sirs,  the  King's  commands! 

FiTZURSE.      The    King    commands   you    to   absolve   the 
bishops 
Whom  you  have  excommunicated. 

Becket.  I  ? 

Not  I,  the  Pope.     Ask  him  for  absolution. 

FiTZURSE.     But  you  advised  the  Pope. 

Becket.  And  so  I  did. 

They  have  but  to  submit. 

The  Four  Knights.     The  King  commands  you. 
We  are  all  King's  men. 

Becket.  King's  men  at  least  should  know 

That  their  own  King  closed  with  me  last  July 
That  I  should  pass  the  censures  of  the  Church 
On  those  that  crown'd  young  Henry  in  this  realm, 
And  trampled  on  the  rights  of  Canterbury. 

FiTZURSE.      What!     dare    you    charge    the    King    with 
treachery  ? 

Becket.     I  spake  no  word  of  treachery,  Reginald. 
Nay,  you  yourself  were  there  :  you  heard  yourself. 

FiTZURSE.     I  was  not  there. 

Becket.  I  saw  you  there. 

FiTZURSE.  I  was  not. 

Becket.     You  were.     I  never  forget  anything. 

FiTZURSE.     He  makes  the  King  a  traitor,  me  a  liar. 
How  long  shall  we  forbear  him  ?  [Knights  crowd  round. 

Becket.     Ye  think  to  scare  me  from  my  loyalty 
To  God  and  to  the  Holy  Father.     No  ! 
Tho'  all  the  swords  in  England  flash'd  above  me 
Ready  to  fall  at  Henry's  word  or  yours — 


532  BECKET. 

Tho'  all  the  loud-lung'd  trumpets  upon  earth 

Blared  from  the  heights  of  all  the  thrones  of  her  kings, 

Blowing  the  world  against  me,  I  would  stand 

Clothed  with  the  full  authority  of  Rome, 

Mail'd  in  the  perfect  panoply  of  faith, 

First  of  the  foremost  of  their  files,  who  die 

For  God,  to  people  heaven  in  the  great  day 

When  God  makes  up  His  jewels. 

De  Morville.  Know  you  not 

You  have  spoken  to  the  peril  of  your  life? 

Becket.     As  I  shall  speak  again. 

FiTZURSE,  De  Tracy,  and  De  Brito.     To  arms! 

{They  rush  out,  De  Morville  lingers. 

Becket.  De  Morville, 

I  had  thought  so  well  of  you ;  and  even  now 
You  seem  the  least  assassin  of  the  four. 
Oh,  do  not  damn  yourself  for  company! 
Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  save  your  soul  ? 
I  pray  you  for  one  moment  stay  and  speak. 

De  Morville.     Becket,  it  is  too  late.  {Exit. 

Becket.  Is  it  too  late? 

Too  late  on  earth  may  be  too  soon  in  hell. 

Knights.     [/«  the  distance.'\     Close  the  great  gate — ho, 
there — upon  the  town. 

Becket's  Retainers.     Shut  the  hall-doors.       {A  pause. 

John  of  Salisbury.      You  should   have   taken  counsel 
with  your  friends 
Before  these  bandits  brake  into  your  presence. 
They  seek — you  make — occasion  for  your  death. 

Becket.     My  counsel  is  already  taken,  John. 
I  am  prepared  to  die. 

John  of  Salisbury.     We  are  sinners  all. 
The  best  of  all  not  all-prepared  to  die. 


NOTES.  533 

Becket.     God's  will  be  done  ! 

John  of  Salisbury.  Ay,  well.     God's  will  be  done  ! 

Grim.     \_Re-entering.'\     My  lord,  the  knights  are  arming 
in  the  garden 
Beneath  the  sycamore. 

Becket.  Good  !  let  them  arm. 

Grim.     And  one  of  the  De  Brocs  is  with  them, — Robert, 
The  apostate  monk  that  was  with  Randulf  here. 
He  knows  the  twists  and  turnings  of  the  place. 

Becket.     No  fear  ! 

Grim.  No  fear,  my  lord. 

{Crashes  on  the  hall-doors.     The  Monks y?£'^. 

Becket.     {Rising.'\  Our  dovecote  flown  ! 

I  cannot  tell  why  monks  should  all  be  cowards. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Take  refuge   in   your  own  cathe- 
dral, Thomas. 

Becket.     Do   they  not   fight   the   Great   Fiend   day  by 
day  ? 
Valour  and  holy  life  should  go  together. 
Why  should  all  monks  be  cowards  ! 

John  of  Salisbury.  Are  they  so  ? 

I  say,  take  refuge  in  your  own  cathedral. 

\_Bell  rings  for  vespers  till  end  of  scene. 

Grim.     Vespers  are  beginning. 
You  should  attend  the  office,  give  them  heart. 
They  fear  you  slain  :  they  dread  they  know  not  what. 

Becket.     Ay,  monks,  not  men. 

Grim.  I  am  a  monk,  my  lord. 

Perhaps,  my  lord,  you  wrong  us. 
Some  would  stand  by  you  to  the  death. 

Becket.  Your  pardon. 

John  of  Salisbury.     He  said,  "Attend  the  office." 

Becket.  Attend  the  office  ? 


534  BECKET. 

Why  then — The  Cross  ! — who  bears  my  Cross  before  me  ? 
Methought  they  would  have  brain'd  me  with  it,  John. 

[Grim  takes  it. 

Grim.     I  !     Would  that  I  could  bear  thy  cross  indeed ! 

Becket.     The  Mitre  ! 

John  of  Salisbury.    Will  you  wear  it  ?  there  ! 

Becket.  The  Pall ! 

I  go  to  meet  my  King  !  \Puts  on  the  pall.    Exeunt. 


Scene  3. — North  Transept  of  Canterbury  Cathedral.  On 
the  right  hand  a  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  Choir., 
another  flight  on  the  left,  leading  to  the  North  Aisle. 
Winter  afternoon  slowly  darkening.  Monks  heard 
chantitig  the  service.     Rosamund  kneeling. 

Rosamund.    O  blessed  saint,  O  glorious  Benedict, — 
These  armM  men  in  the  city,  these  fierce  faces — 
Thy  holy  follower  founded  Canterbury, 
Save  that  dear  head  which  now  is  Canterbury, 
Save  him,  he  saved  my  life,  he  saved  my  child, 
Save  him,  his  blood  would  darken  Henry's  name ; 
Save  him  till,  all  as  saintly  as  thyself. 
He  miss  the  searching  flame  of  purgatory. 
And  pass  at  once  perfect  to  Paradise. 

\_Noise  of  steps  and  voices  in  the  cloisters. 
Hark  !     Is  it  they  ?     Coming  !     He  is  not  here — 
Not  yet,  thank  heaven.     O  save  him  ! 

[  Goes  up  steps  leading  to  choir. 

Becket  {entering,  forced  along  by  John  of  Salisbury 

and  Grim). 

Becket.  No,  I  tell  you  ! 


NOTES.  535 

I  cannot  bear  a  hand  upon  my  person, 
Why  do  you  force  me  thus  against  my  will  ? 

Grim.     My  lord,  we  force  you  from  your  enemies. 
Becket.     As  you  would  force  a  king  from  being  crown'd. 
\Service  stops.     Monks  come  down  from  the 
stairs  that  lead  to  the  choir. 
Monks.      Here    is    the    great   Archbishop !      He   lives ! 

he  Hves ! 
Becket.    Back,  I  say! 
Go  on  with  the  office.     Shall  not  Heaven  be  served 
Tho'  earth's  last  earthquake  clashed  the  minster-bells, 
And  the  great  deeps  were  broken  up  again, 
And  hiss'd  against  the  sun?  {^IVoise  in  the  cloisters. 

Monks.  The  murderers,  hark! 

Let  us  hide!  let  us  hide! 

Becket.     What  do  these  people  fear? 
Grim.     Those  arm'd  men  in  the  cloister. 
Becket.  Be  not  such  cravens ! 

I  will  go  out  and  meet  them. 

Grim  AND  others.  Shut  the  doors! 

We  will  not  have  him  slain  before  our  face. 

[  They  close  the  doors  of  the  transept. 
Knocking. 
Fly,  fly,  my  lord,  before  they  burst  the  doors ! 

{Knocking. 
Becket.     Why,  these  are  our  own  monks  who  follow'd 
us! 
And  will  you  bolt  them  out,  and  have  thetn  slain? 
Undo  the  doors  :  the  church  is  not  a  castle  : 
Stand  by,  make  way! 

\_Opens  the  doors.    Enter  Monks  from  cloister. 
Monks.     A  score  of  knights  all  arm'd  with  syvords  and 
axes — 


536  BECKET. 

To  the  choir,  to  the  choir ! 

[Monks  divide,  part  flying  by  the  stairs  on  the 
right,  part  by  those  on  the  left.  The  rush 
of  these  last  bears  Becket  along  with 
them  some  way  up  the  steps,  where  he  is 
left  standing  alone. 
John  of  Salisbury.  No,  to  the  crypt ! 

Grim.     To  the  crypt  ?  no — no, 
To  the  chapel  of  St.  Blaise  beneath  the  roof ! 

Becket.     Oh,  no,  not  either  way,  nor  any  way 
Save  by  that  way  which  leads  thro'  night  to  light. 

Enter  the  four  Knights.    John  of  Salisbury  flies  to 
the  altar  of  St.  Benedict. 

Fitzurse.     Here,  here,  King's  men  ! 

{Catches  hold  of  the  last  flying  Monk. 
Where  is  the  traitor  Becket  ? 

Becket.  Here. 

No  traitor  to  the  King,  but  Priest  of  God, 
Primate  of  England.  {Descending  into  the  transept. 

I  am  he  ye  seek. 
What  would  ye  have  of  me? 

Fitzurse.  Your  life. 

De  Tracy.  Your  life. 

De  Morville.     Save  that  you  will  absolve  the  bishops. 

Becket.  Never,— 

Except  they  make  submission  to  the  Church. 
You  had  my  answer  to  that  cry  before. 

De  Morville.     Why,  then  you  are  a  dead  man  ;  flee  ! 

Becket.  I  will  not. 

I  am  readier  to  be  slain,  than  thou  to  slay. 
Hugh,  I  know  well  thou  hast  but  half  a  heart 
To  bathe  this  sacred  pavement  with  my  blood. 


NOTES. 


537 


God  pardon  thee  and  these,  but  God's  full  curse 
Shatter  you  all  to  pieces  if  ye  harm 
One  of  my  flock! 

FiTZURSE.  Seize  him  and  carry  him! 

Come  with  us — nay — thou  art  our  prisoner — come ! 

[FiTZURSE  lays  Jiold  of  the  Arch- 
bishop's pall. 
Becket.  Down ! 

\Throws  him  headlong. 
De   Morville.     Ay,  make   him   prisoner,   do   not   harm 

the  man. 
FiTZURSE.     {^Advances  with  drawn  sword.]     I  told  thee 

that  I  should  remember  thee! 
Becket.     Profligate  pander! 

FiTZURSE.  Do  you  hear  that?  strike,  strike. 

[Strikes  the  Archbishop,  and  wounds 
him  in  the  forehead. 
Becket.     [Covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand.]     I   do   com- 
mend my  cause  to  God. 
FiTZURSE.     Strike  him,  Tracy! 

Rosamund.     [Rushing  down  steps  from  the  choir. '\     No, 
No,  No,  No! 

Mercy,  mercy, 
As  you  would  hope  for  mercy. 

FiTZURSE.  Strike,  I  say. 

Grim.     O  God,  O  noble  knights,  O  sacrilege! 
FiTZURSE.  Strike! 

De  Tracy.     There  is  my  answer  then. 

[Sword  falls  on  Grim's  arm  and  glances 
from  it,  wounding  Becket. 
De  Brito.     This  last  to  rid  thee  of  a  world  of  brawls! 
Becket.     [Falling  on    his  knees. '\     Into  Thy  hands,  O 
Lord,  into  Thy  hands ! [Sinks  prone. 


538  BECKET. 

De  Brito.  The  traitor's  dead,  and  will  arise  no  more. 
[De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse,  rush  out, 
crying  '■'■  King's  men  I''''  De  Morville 
follows  slowly.  Flashes  of  lightning  thro'' 
the  Cathedral >  Rosamund  seen  kneeling 
by  the  body  of  Becket. 

1  [A  tremendous  thunderstorm  actually  broke  over  the  Cathedral  as 
the  murderers  were  leaving  it. 

Mr.  Walter  Pollock  records  in  his  Impressions  of  Irving,  p.  138 : 
"  As  regards  Becket,  I  have  said  before  that  the  play  and  the  part  had 
a  strange  influence  over  Irving.  It  was  not  to  me,  but  to  my  wife 
that  he  once  said  that  no  dramatic  poetry  and  no  character  had  ever 
so  influenced  him.  ...  '  You  know,'  my  wife  said,  '  that  people  talk 
of  your  having  "made"  the  play."  His  reply  was  emphatic:  'No, 
no,"  he  said,  '  the  play  made  me.  It  changed  my  whole  view  of  life.'  " 
—Ed.] 


NOTES   ON  THE   FALCON. 

/.  221.  The  Falcon.  [First  published  in  1884. — Ed.] 
Founded  on  a  story  in  Boccaccio  (the  ninth 
novel  of  the  fifth  day  of  the  Decameron),  and 
produced  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  at  the 
St.  James'  Theatre,  who  played  it  for  sixty- 
seven  nights. 

[Hazlitt  first  suggested  the  story  as  suitable 
for  stage  treatment.  Fanny  Kemble  called  the 
play  "  an  exquisite  little  idyll  in  action  like 
one  of  A.  de  Musset's."  Mrs.  Brotherton 
writes  to  me  :  "  Well  do  I  remember  your 
father  reading  The  Falcon  to  me  (still  in  MS.), 
in  a  little  attic  at  Farringford.  The  ivy  out- 
side was  blowing  against  the  casement  like 
pattering  rain,  all  the  time.  When  he  had 
finished  he  softly  closed  the  simple  'copy- 
book '  it  was  written  in,  and  said  softly, 
*  Stately  and  tender,  isn't  it?  '  exactly  as  if  he 
were  commenting  on  another  man's  work — 
and  no  more  just  comment  could  have  come 
from  the  whole  world  of  critics." — Ed.] 
539 


NOTES  ON  THE   FORESTERS. 
By  the  Editor. 

[Written  eleven  years  before  publication  in  1881. 
First  published  and  performed  in  1892. 

On  March  25th  The  Foresters  was  produced  at  New 
York  by  Daly,  the  incidental  music  being  by  Sir  Arthur 
Sullivan.  It  gave  my  father  great  pleasure  to  hear  that 
American  people  were  "  appreciative  of  the  fancy  and  of 
the  beauty,  and  especially  of  the  songs  and  of  the  wise 
sayings  about  life  in  which  the  woodland  play  abounds."  ^ 
The  houses  were  packed  and  the  play  had  a  long  and 
most  successful  run. 

Before  the  production  my  father  wrote  to  Daly : 

I  wish  you  all  success  with  my  Robin  Hood  and  Maid 
Marian.  From  what  I  know  of  Miss  Ada  Rehan  I  am 
sure  that  she  will  play  her  part  to  perfection,  and  I  am 
certain  that  under  your  management,  with  the  music  by 
one  so  popular  as  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan,  with  the  costumes 
fashioned  after  the  old  designs  in  the  British  Museum, 
with  the  woodland  scenes  taken  from  Mr.  Whymper's 
beautiful  pictures  of  the  Sherwood  of  to-day,  my  play  will 
be  produced  to  advantage  both  in  America  and  in  England. 

1  Jowett. 
541 


542  THE  FORESTERS. 

I  am  told  that  your  company  is  good,  and  that  Mr.  Jefferson 
once  belonged  to  it.  When  he  was  in  England,  I  saw 
him  play  Rip  Van  Wmkle,  and  assuredly  nothing  could 
have  been  better. 

With  all  cordial  greetings  to  my  American  friends,  I 
remain  faithfully  yours,  Tennyson. 

And  he  received  the  following  from  Miss  Ada  Rehan  : 

Let  me  add  my  congratulations  to  the  many  on  the 
success  of  The  Foresters.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  de- 
lighted I  was  when  I  felt  and  saw,  from  the  first,  the  joy 
it  was  giving  to  our  large  audience.  Its  charm  is  felt  by 
all.  Let  me  thank  you  for  myself  for  the  honour  of 
playing  your  Maid  Marian,  which  I  have  learned  to 
love,  for  while  I  am  playing  the  part  I  feel  all  its  beauty 
and  simplicity  and  sweetness,  which  make  me  feel  for  the 
time  a  happier  and  a  better  woman.  I  am  indeed  proud 
of  its  great  success  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own. 

P.S. — The  play  is  now  one  week  old,  and  each  audience 
has  been  larger  than  the  last  and  all  as  sympathetic  as 
the  first. 

And  Professor  Jebb  wrote  : 

Being  here  on  my  way  to  the  Johns  Hopkins  University 
at  Baltimore,  where  I  have  some  Lectures  to  give,  I 
naturally  went  to  see  T/ie  Foresters  at  Augustin  Daly''s 
last  night.  The  Theatre,  which  is  of  moderate  size,  was 
densely  packed,  and  as  1  had  not  engaged  my  seat  by 
cablegram  from  Liverpool,  I  bore  no  resemblance,  in 
respect  of  spacious  comfort,  to  the  ideal  spectator,  the 
masher  or  "  dude,"  depicted  on  the  play-bill  which  I  send 
you  by  this  post.     I  was  a  highly  compressed  and  squalid 


NOTES.  543 

object  in  a  back  seat,  amid  a  seething  mass  of  humanity, 
but  I  saw  the  play  very  well.  It  was  very  cordially 
received  and  was  well  acted,  I  thought,  especially  by  Ada 
Rehan  and  Drew.  The  fairy  scene  in  the  third  Act  was 
perfectly  lovely,  and  the  lyrics  were  everywhere  beautifully 
given.     The  mounting  of  the  play  was  excellent  throughout. 

The  criticism  of  The  Foresters  which  pleased  my 
father  most  was  in  a  letter  addressed  to  Lady  Martin 
(Miss  Helen  Faucit)  by  the  eminent  Shakespearian 
scholar,  Mr.  Horace  Furness  of  Philadelphia,  when  the 
piece  was  being  performed  in  New  York : 

After  dinner  we  went  to  see  The  Foresters.  Men 
and  women — of  a  different  time,  to  be  sure,  but  none  too 
good  "for  human  nature's  daily  food" — live  their  idyllic 
lives  before  you,  and  you  feel  that  all  is  good,  very  good. 
The  atmosphere  is  so  real,  and  we  fall  into  it  so  com- 
pletely, that,  Americans  though  we  be  through  and  through, 
we  can  listen  with  hearty  assent  to  the  chorus  that  "  There 
is  no  land  like  England,"  and  that  "There  are  no  wives 
like  English  wives."  Nay,  come  to  think  of  it,  that  song 
was  encored.  It  was  charming,  charming  from  beginning 
to  end.  And  Miss  Rehan  acted  to  perfection.  I  had  to 
leave  in  the  midnight  train  for  home,  and  during  two 
hours'  driving  through  the  black  night,  I  smoked  and 
reflected  on  the  unalloyed  charm  of  such  a  drama.  And 
to  see  the  popularity,  too  !  It  had  been  running  many 
weeks— six,  I  think — and  the  theatre  was  full,  not  a  seat 
unoccupied.  I  do  revel,  I  confess,  in  such  a  proof  as  this 
that  there  will  always  be  a  full  response  to  what  is  fine  and 
good,  and  that  the  modern  sensational  French  drama  is  not 
our  true  exponent. 


544  THE  FORESTERS. 

p.  302.  (Act  I.  Sc.  iii.)  To  Sleep.  First  published  in 
New  Revieiv,  1891,  and  set  to  music  by 
my  mother.  (See  Mile.  Janotha's  edition 
of  Lady  Tennyson's  songs,  published  by 
Novello.) 

p.  319.    line  I.    (Act  11.  Sc.  i.)  wickentree,  mountain-ash. 

/.  339.  Act  II.  Sc.  ii.  ad  finem.  The  wJiole  stage  lights 
tip,  and  fairies  are  seefi  swinging  on  boughs 
and  nestling  in  hollow  trunks,  etc. 

My  father  said  to  Mr.  Daly  :  "  I  don't  care 
for  The  Foresters  as  I  do  for  Becket  and 
Harold.  Irving  suggested  the  fairies  in  my 
Robin  Hood,  else  I  should  not  have  dreamed 
of  trenching  on  Shakespeare's  ground  in  that 
way.  Then  Irving  wrote  to  me  that  the  play 
was  not  '  sensational '  enough  for  an  English 
public.  It  is  a  woodland  play — a  pastoral 
without  shepherds.  The  great  stage-drama 
is  wholly  unlike  most  of  the  drama  of  modern 
times.  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  every  scene 
being  obliged  to  end  with  a  bang.''  About 
"  There  is  no  land  like  England,"  he  added, 
"  I  wrote  that  song  when  I  was  nineteen.  It 
has  a  beastly  chorus  against  the  French,  and 
I  must  alter  that  if  you  will  have  it." 

My  father  recommended  Daly  to  look  at 
Whymper's  pictures  of  Sherwood  Forest, 
which  he  straightway  bought  in  order  that 
they  might  be  copied  for  the  scenes. 


NOTES.  545 

P'  357-  (Act  III.  Sc.  i.)  torretits  of  eddying  bark.  I 
heard  my  father  first  use  these  words  about 
the  great  trunks  of  the  Spanish  chestnuts  in 
Cowdray  Park  near  Midhurst.  He  and  I 
stayed  in  Sherwood  Forest  in  1881,  at  the 
time  when  he  was  writing  The  Foresters. 

pp.  366,  367.  (Act  III.  Sc.  i.)  [Instead  of  the  short 
scene  between  Robin  and  Marian,  beginning 
"  Honour  to  thee,  brave  Marian,"  to  "  my 
will,  and  made  it  thine,"  my  father  had  written 
in  the  first  proof  of  the  play  the  following 
lively  and  charming  scene,  which  he  cut  out 
when  Miss  Mary  Anderson  was  to  have  acted 
Marian :  ^  — 

Robin. 

Honour  to  thee,  brave  Marian,  and  thy  Kate. 

I  know  them  arrant  knaves  in  Nottingham. 

One    half   of   this    shall    go    to    those    that    they   have 

wrong'd, 
One  half  shall  pass  into  our  treasury. 

Marian. 

My  father  has  none  with  him.     See  to  him,  Kate. 

[  Exit  Kate. 
Robin. 

Where  lies  that  cask  of  wine  whereof  we  plunder'd 
The  Norman  prelate? 

1  She   fell   ill  and   left   the  stage,  else  she  was   to  have  played   in 
The  Foresters  and  The  Cup. 

VOL.  VI.  2  N 


546  THE   FORESTERS. 

Little  John. 

In  that  oak,  were  twelve 
Can  stand  upright,  nor  touch  each  other.' 

Robin. 

Good! 
Roll  it  in  here.     These  beggars  and  these  friars 
Shall  drink  the  health  of  our  new  woodland  Queen. 

\_Exeunt  Robin's  fnen. 
(To  Marian)    And  now  that  thou  hast  triumph'd  as  our 

Queen, 
I  have  a  mind  to  embrace  thee  as  our  Queen. 

Marian  (frantically). 

Quiet,  Robin,  quiet.  You  lovers  are  such  summer 
flies,  always  buzzing  at  the  face  of  your  lady. 

Robin. 

Say  rather  we  are  bees  that  fly  to  the  flower  for 
honey. 

Marian. 

Your  soul  should  worship  her  soul,  your  heart  her 
heart,  and  all  your  thoughts  should  be  higher-winged  in 
the  spiritual  heaven  of  love. 

Robin. 

Ay,  but  we  lovers  are  not  cherubim,  wings  and  no 

more. 

1  The  oak  described  here  was  standing  in  Sherwood  Forest  when 
we  visited  it  in  1881. 


NOTES. 


Marian. 


547 


True,  Robin,  thou  art  plump  enough  for  my  robin, 
but  thy  face  is  too  gaunt  for  a  cherub's. 

Robin. 

Yet  I  would  I  were  a  winged  cherub,  that  I  might 
fly  and  hide  myself  in  thy  bosom. 

Marian. 

Ay,  but,  cherub,  if  thou  flewest  so  close  as  that,  I 
should  fly  like  the  maid  in  the  heathen  fable  when  the 
would-be  god  lost  his  nymph  in  the  wood. 

Robin. 
What  was  she  ? 

Marian. 
I  forget.     The  Maid  Marian  of  these  times  belike. 

Robin. 
And  how  did  he  lose  her? 

Marian. 

As  many  men  lose  many  women  if  they  fly  too  near 
— as  thou  mayest  lose  me  in  this  forest.  She  turned 
herself  into  a  laurel. 

Robin. 

I  would  have  gathered  the  leaves,  and  made  a  crown 

of  it. 

Marian. 

And  the  laurel  would  have  withered  in  a  day,  and 
the  nymph  would  have  been  dead  wood  to  thee  for  ever. 


548  THE  FORESTERS. 

Robin. 

No,  no ;  I  would  have  clasped  and  kissed,  and 
warmed  the  dead  wood  till  it  broke  again  into  living 
leaf. 

Marian. 

Well,  well,  to  tell  love's  truth,  I  sighed  for  a  touch 
of  thy  lips  a  year  ago,  but  the  Sheriff  has  come  between 
us.  Is  it  not  all  over  now — gone  like  a  deer  that  hath 
escaped  from  thine  arrow? 

Robin. 

What  deer,  when  I  have  marked  him,  ever  escaped 
from  mine  arrow?  The  Sheriff — over  is  it?  Wilt  thou 
give  me  thy  hand  upon  that? 

Marian. 

Take  it. 

Robin. 

The  Sheriff !  [  Kisses  her  hand. 

This  ring  cries  out  against  thee.     Say  it  again. 
And  by  this  ring,  the  lips  that  never  breathed 
Love's  falsehood  to  true  maid  will  seal  love's  truth 
On  those  sweet  lips  that  dare  to  dally  with  it. 

Ed.] 


CROSSING   THE    BAR 


Vti/lfU    M*^    h4)M- 

i^A^  t^  fUA  ^  nf^^-' 


INDICES. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

A  city  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred,  i.  497. 

Act  first,  this  Earth,  a  stage  so  gloom'd  with  woe,  iv.  508. 

Ah  God !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme,  i.  595. 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian,  i.  21. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white,  i.  582. 

All  precious  things,  discover'd  late,  i.  374. 

Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind,  i.  304. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant,  i.  378. 

And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  ?  i.  549. 

A  plague  upon  the  people  fell,  i.  596. 

Are  you  sleeping  ?   have  you  forgotten  ?  do  not  sleep,  my  sister  dear ! 

iv.  299. 
A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours,  i.  54. 
A  still  small  voice  spake  unto  me,  i.  122. 
A  storm  was  coming,  but  the  winds  were  still,  iii.  182. 
As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and  brood,  i.  103. 
At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay,  iv.  121. 
At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve,  i.  253. 
Athelstan  King,  iv.  235. 

A  thousand  summers  ere  the  time  of  Christ,  iv.  287. 
A  touch,  a  kiss  I  the  charm  was  snapt,  i.  376. 
■At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest,  iv.  401. 
A  Voice  spake  out  of  the  skies,  v.  89. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou, 

iv.  174. 
'  Beat,  little  heart —  I  give  you  this  and  this,'  iv.  494. 
Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater  of  European  confusion,  iv.  507. 
Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep,  i.  19. 
Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day,  i.  627. 
Be  thou  a-gawin'  to  the  long  barn  ?  v.  167. 
Birds'  love  and  birds'  song,  i.  624. 
Break,  break,  break,  i.  452. 

Brooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that  knew  you  best,  iv.  229. 
Bury  the  Great  Duke,  i.  523. 

555 


556  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender  hand,  i.  109. 

Chains,  my  good  lord  :  in  your  raised  brows  I  read,  iv.  196. 

Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn,  i,  34. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing,  i.  7. 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead,  i.  433. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ,  i.  577. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn,  i.  347. 

'  Courage  ! '  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land,  i.  204. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his  mood,  iii.  340. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you  wander  ?  i.  591. 

Dead !  iv.  370. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that,  which  lived,  iv.  172. 

Dear  Master  in  our  classic  town,  v.  5. 

Dear,  near  and  true —  no  truer  Time  himself,  i.  607. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows,  i.  390. 

Dosn't  thou  "ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters  awaay?  i.  565. 

Doubt  no  longer  that  the  Highest  is  the  wisest  and  the  best,  v.  92. 

Dust  are  our  frames  ;  and,  gilded  dust,  our  pride,  i.  463. 

Eh  ?  good  daay !  good  daay !  thaw  it  bean't  not  mooch  of  a  daay,  v.  48. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  loveable,  iii.  221. 

Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright,  but  fed,  i.  23. 

Faint  as  a  climate-changing  bird  that  flies,  iv.  410. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place,  i.  586. 

Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  away,  iv.  409. 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night  we  part,  iv.  514. 

Farewell,  whose  like  on  earth  I  shall  not  find,  iv.  513. 

Fifty  times  the  rose  has  fiower'd  and  faded,  iv.  405. 

First  pledge  our  Queen  this  solemn  night,  iv.  387. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea,  i.  429. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  i.  606. 

From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess  done,  iii.  278. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow,  i.  230. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song,  i.  600. 
Golden-hair'd  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine,  iv.  85. 
Gone,  i.  622. 

Had  the  fierce  ashes  of  some  fiery  peak,  v.  14. 
Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  i.  538. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  557 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah !  iv.  227. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands,  i.  431. 

He  is  fled  —  I  wish  him  dead  — ,  iv.  458. 

Helen's  Tower,  here  I  stand,  iv.  382. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid,  i.  430. 

Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted ;  I  to  the  East,  i.  454. 

Here  far  away,  seen  from  the  topmost  cliff,  iv.  3. 

Here,  it  is  here,  the  close  of  the  year,  i.  593. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope,  i.  587. 

Her,  that  yer  Honour  was  spakin'  to  ?    Whin,  yer  Honour  ?    Last 

year — ,  iv.  310. 
He  that  only  rules  by  terror,  i.  414. 
He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of  oak,  i.  107. 
Hide  me.  Mother !  my  Fathers  belong'd  to  the  church  of  old,  iv.  263, 
How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down,  i.  108. 

I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house,  i.  172. 

If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be,  i.  112. 

I  had  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late,  i.  437. 

I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood,  ii.  145. 

I  knew  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor,  i.  250. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls,  i.  450. 

I'm  glad  I  walk'd.     How  fresh  the  meadows  look,  i.  292. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gaily,  i.  417. 

1  read,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade,  i.  213. 

I  see  the  wealthy  miller  yet,  i.  145. 

I  send  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory,  i.  171. 

Is  it  you,  that  preach'd  in  the  chapel  there  looking  over  the  sand  ? 

iv.  276. 
It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,  i.  339. 
It  was  the  time  that  lilies  blow,  i.  409. 
I  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry,  i.  364. 

I  was  the  chief  of  the  race  —  he  had  stricken  my  father  dead,  iv.  209. 
I  wish  I  were  as  in  the  years  of  old,  iv.  254. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fill  the  gap,  iii.  315, 
King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years,  and  grown,  iv.  248. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  i.  187. 

Late,   my  grandson!    half  the  morning   have  I   paced  these    sandy 
tracts,  iv.  331. 


558 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  FINES. 


Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard,  iii.  4. 

Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away,  i.  65. 

'  Light  of  the  nations,'  ask'd  his  chronicler,  v.  20. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth,  i.  629. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain,  i.  426. 

Live  thy  Life,  iv.  512. 

Lo !  there  once  more  —  this  is  the  seventh  night !  v.  489. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  chasm,  ii.  233. 

Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought,  i.  243. 

Low-flowing   breezes   are   roaming  the  broad  valley   dimm'd  in  the 

gloaming,  i.  9. 
Lucilia,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found,  i.  511. 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark    globe  sighs  after  many   a  vanish'd 

face,  iv.  429. 
Many,  many  welcomes,  iv.  510. 
Mellow  moon  of  heaven,  iv.  434. 
Midnight  —  in  no  midsummer  tune,  iv.  379. 

Milk  for  my  sweet-arts,  Bess!  fur  it  mun  be  the  time  about  now,  iv.  320. 
Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full  and  free,  i.  105. 
Minnie  and  Winnie,  i.  592. 
Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave,  i.  432. 
My  father  left  a  park  to  me,  i.  385. 

My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere  hereabovit,  iv.  185. 
My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men,  i.  392. 
My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe,  i.  73. 
My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  — thou  wilt  be,  i.  104. 
My  life  is  full  of  weary  days,  i.  loi. 
My  Lords,  we  heard  you  speak :  you  told  us  all,  i.  535. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind,  i.91. 
Mystery  of  mysteries,  i.  84. 

Naay,  noa  mander  o'  use  to  be  callin'  "im  Roa,Roa,  Roa,  iv.  417. 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies,  i.  237. 

Nightingales  warbled  without,  i.  583. 

Not  here!  the  white  North  has  thy  bones;  and  thou,  iv.  247. 

Not  this  way  will  you  set  your  name,  iv.  363. 

Now  first  we  stand  and  understand,  v.  78. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work,  i.  69. 

O  blackbird !  sing  me  something  well,  i.  228. 

O  Bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot  was  tied,  i.  113. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  559 

CEnone  sat  within  the  cave  from  out,  v.  7. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close,  i.  330. 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights,  i.  241. 

O  God!  my  God!  have  mercy  now,  i.  11. 

O  great  and  gallant  Scott,  v.  41. 

O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak,  i.  368. 

Old  Fitz,  who  from  your  suburb  grange,  iv.  251. 

Old  poets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies,  iv.  398. 

O  Love,  Love,  Love !  O  withering  might !  i.  156. 

O  love,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine,  i.  571. 

O  loyal  to  the  royal  in  thyself,  iii.  419. 

O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake,  i.  297. 

O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies,  i.  616. 

On  a  midnight  in  midwinter  when  all  but  the  winds  were  dead,  v.  75. 

Once  in  a  golden  hour,  i.  584. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls,  i.  314. 

Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power,  iv.  376. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie,  i.  114. 

O  Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise  to  know,  iv.  386. 

O  plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock,  i.  398. 

O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men,  iii.  119. 

O  sweet  pale  Margaret,  i.  87. 

O  thou  so  fair  in  summers  gone,  iv.  389. 

O  thou,  that  sendest  out  the  man,  i.  248. 

Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  each,  iv.  357. 

Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had  seen  him  before,  iv.  163. 

'Ouse-keeper  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur  New  Squire  coom'd  last  night,  iv.  i48_ 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep,  iv.  223. 

O  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong !  i.  580. 

O  you  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers,  i.  617. 

O  young  Mariner,  iv.  488. 

O  you  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the  King  till  he  past  away,  iv.  246. 

Pellam  the  King,  who  held  and  lost  with  Lot,  iii.  158. 
Pine,  beech  and  plane,  oak,  walnut,  apricot,  v.  105. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat,  iii.  371. 

Ralph  would  fight  in  Edith's  sight,  v.  83. 

Red  of  the  Dawn  !  v.  69. 

Revered,  beloved  —  O  you  that  hold,  i.  i. 


56o  INDEX   OF  FIRST  IINES. 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest  Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire,  iv.  367. 

Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago,  iv.  508. 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione  row !  iv.  381. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea,  i.  544. 

Sir,  do  you  see  this  dagger  ?  nay,  why  do  you  start  aside  ?  v.  42. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's  day,  ii.  i. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw,  i.  63. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd,  i.  256. 

So  Hector  spake ;  the  Trojans  roar'd  applause,  i.  618. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay,  i.  380,  384. 

So,  my  Lord,  the  Lady  Giovanna,  vi.  221. 

So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away,  iv.  244. 

So  then  our  good  Archbishop  Theobald,  vi.  5. 

'  Spring-flowers  1 '     While  you  still  delay  to  take,  iv.  477. 

Stand  back,  keep  a  clear  lane  1  v.  279. 

Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane,  i.  434. 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  ii.  283. 

Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming,  iv.  511. 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes,  i.  628. 

Sunset  and  evening  star,  v.  102. 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town,  i.  396. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere,  iii.  399. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  iii.  85. 

The  bridal  garland  falls  upon  the  bier,  v.  100. 

'The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and  not  a  room,'  i.  288. 

The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade !  iv.  359. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent !  i.  no. 

The  frost  is  here,  i.  623. 

The  gleam  of  household  sunshine  ends,  v.  85. 

The  groundflame  of  the  crocus  breaks  the  mould,  iv.  482. 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent,  iii.  25. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly !  i.  620. 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul  of  a  man,  iv.  503. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the  rain  1  i.  625. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare,  i.  67. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born,  i.  58. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  poet  arose,  i.  453. 

There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar,  v.  81. 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier,  i.  158. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  561 

There  on  the  top  of  the  down,  v.  3. 

These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing'd  music  of  Homer  I  i.  615. 

These  roses  for  my  Lady  Marian,  vi.  269. 

These  to  his  memory  —  since  he  held  them  dear,  iii.  i. 

The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove  for  power,  i.  546. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains,  i.  60I. 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf,  i.  369. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak,  i.  603. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth,  i.  20. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows,  i.  233. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall,  i.  343. 

They  have  left  the  doors  ajar;  and  by  their  clash,  iv.  13a. 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails,  iv.  229. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day,  i.  269. 

This  thing,  that  thing  is  the  rage,  v.  87. 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and  fast,  iv.  228. 

Tho"  Sin  too  oft,  when  smitten  by  Thy  rod,  v.  90. 

Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors,  i.  36. 

Thou  third  great  Canning,  stand  among  our  best,  iv.  383. 

Thou  who  stealest  fire,  i.  48. 

Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not,  i.  94. 

Thy  prayer  was  '  Light  — more  Light  — while  Time  shall  lastl '  iv.  385. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd,  I  wot,  i.  40. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbour  villages,  i.  78. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet,  i.  626. 

Two  Suns  of  Love  make  day  of  human  life,  iv.  392. 

Ulysses,  much-experienced  man,  iv.  473. 
Uplift  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet,  i.  541. 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind,  i.  61. 

Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance,  iv.  230. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine,  i.  621. 

Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou  mun  a'  sights  to  tell,  iv.  107. 
Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and  sea,  iv.  96. 
'  Wait  a  little,'  you  say, '  you  are  sure  it'll  all  come  right,'  iv.  85. 
Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the  cast,  i.  in. 
Warrior  of  God,  man's  friend,  and  tyrant's  foe,  iv.  384. 
Warrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right  arm  debased,  i.  106. 
Welcome,  welcome  with  one  voice  !  iv.  395. 
VOL.  VI  20 


562  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy,  i.  421. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which  Leonard  wrote,  i.  335. 

We  move,  the  wheel  must  always  move,  iv.  506. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race,  i.  169. 

What  am  I  doing,  you  say  to  me,  '  wasting  the  sweet  summer  hours  '  ? 

V.57- 
What    be    those    crown'd    forms    high    over    the    sacred    fountain  ? 

iv.  501. 
What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he  knew,  iv.  505. 
What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light,  i.  72. 
Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere  aloan  ?  i.  559. 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come,  i.  39. 
When  from  the  terrors  of  Nature  a  people  have  fashion'd  and  worship 

a  Spirit  of  Evil,  v.  65. 
When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free,  i.  41. 
When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black,  v.  94. 
When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing,  i.  5. 
Where  Claribel  low  lieth,  i.  3. 
Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet,  i.  624. 
Where  is  one  that,  bom  of  woman,  altogether  can  escape,  v.  73. 
While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries,  i.  608. 
While  man  and  woman  still  are  incomplete,  iv.  509. 
'  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go,"  i.  589. 
Who  would  be,  i.  79. 
Who  would  be,  i.  81. 

Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover  ?  and  what  is  it  that  you  fear  ?  iv.  463. 
Will  my  tiny  spark  of  being  wholly  vanish  in  your  deeps  and  heights  ? 

V.  98. 
Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb,  i.  626. 
With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky,  i.  56. 
With  blackest  moss  the  flower-pots,  i.  25. 
With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode,  i.  281. 
With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet,  i.  29. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet,  i.  372. 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease,  i.  239. 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and  thence  maintain,  iv.  509. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name,  i.  448. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear,  i.  191. 

You  shake  your  head.    A  random  string,  i.  381. 

You,  you,  //you  shall  fail  to  understand,  iv.  393. 


INDEX   OF   POEMS. 


A  Character,  i.  56. 

Achilles  over  the  Trench,  iv.  244. 

A  Dedication,  i.  607. 

Adeline,  i.  84. 

A  Dirge,  i.  69. 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  i.  213. 

A  Farewell,  i.  429. 

Akbar's  Dream,  v.  20. 

Alexander,  i,  106. 

All  Things  will  die,  i.  7. 

Amphion,  i.  385. 

At  the  Window,  i.  621. 

Audley  Court,  i.  288. 

A  Voice  spake  out  of  the  Skies,  v. 
89. 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra,  i.  544. 

A  Welcome  to  Her  Royal  High- 
ness Marie  Alexandrovna, 
Duchess  of  Edinburgh,   i.   546. 

Ay,  i.  627. 

Aylmer's  Field,  i.  463. 

Balin  and  Balan,  iii.  158. 

Battle  of  Brunanburh,  iv.  235. 

Beautiful  City,  iv.  507. 

Becket,  vi.  5. 

Boadicea,  i.  608. 

'  Break,  Break,  Break,'  i.  452. 

Buonaparte,  i.  107. 

By  an  Evolutionist,  iv.  503. 


'  Caress'd      or    chidden     by    the 

slender  Hand,'  i.  109. 
Charity,  v.  57. 
Circumstance,  i.  78. 
Claribel,  i.  3. 
Columbus,  iv.  196. 
'  Come   not,  when  I  am   dead,'   i, 

433- 
Crossing  the  Bar,  v.  102. 

Dedication  to  Ballads,  iv.  83. 
Dedication  to  Idylls  of  the  King, 

iii.  I. 
Dedicatory  Poem  to  the   Princess 

Alice,  iv.  172. 
Demeter  and  Persephone,  iv,  410. 
De  Profundis,  iv.  223. 
Despair,  iv.  276. 
Dora,  i.  281. 
Doubt  and  Prayer,  v.  90. 

Early  Spring,  iv.  376, 

Edward  Gray,  i.  396.  [i.  297. 

Edwin      Morris,    or,     the     Lake, 

Eleanore,  i.  94. 

England    and    America    in    1782, 

i.  248. 
Enoch  Arden,  ii.  233. 
Epilogue,  iv.  463. 
Epilogue  to  Day-Dream,  i.  384. 


563 


564 


INDEX   OF  POEMS. 


Epitaph  on  Caxton,  iv.  385. 
Epitaph     on      General      Gordon, 

iv.  384. 
Epitaph     on    Lord    Stratford    de 

Redc'iiffe,  iv.  383. 
Experiments  in  Quantity,  i.  615. 

Faith,  V.  92. 

Far — far — away,  iv.  505. 

Fatima,  i.  156. 

'  Flower    in  the  Crannied    Wall,' 

1.  606. 
Forlorn,  iv.  458. 

'  Frater  Ave  atque  Vale,"  iv.  381, 
Freedom,  iv.  389. 

Gareth  and  Lynette,  iii.  25. 
Geraint  and  Enid,  iii.  119. 
God  and  the  Universe,  v.  98. 
Godiva,  i.  364. 
Gone,  i.  622. 
Guinevere,  iii.  371. 

Hands  all  Round,  iv.  387. 
Happy,  iv.  463. 
Harold  :  a  Drama,  v.  481. 
Helen's  Tower,  iv.  382. 

Idylls  of  the  King,  iii.  i. 

'  If  I  were  loved,  as    I    desire   to 

be,'  i.  112. 
In  Memoriam,  ii.  281. 
In    Memoriam  —  William   George 

Ward,  iv.  513. 
In      the      Children's       Hospital  : 

Emmie,  iv.  163. 
In    the    Garden      at    Swainston, 

i-  583- 
In    the    Valley    of    Cauteretz,    i. 

582. 
Isabel,  i.  23. 


June  Bracken  and  Heather,  v.  3. 
Kapiolani,  v.  65. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  i.  187. 

Lady  Clare,  i.  409. 

Lancelot  and  Elaine,  iii.  221. 

Leonine  Elegiacs,  i.  9. 

L'Envoi,  i.  381. 

Lilian,  i.  21. 

Literary  Squabbles,  i.  595. 

Locksley  Hall,  i.  347. 

Locksley   Hall  Sixty  Years  After, 

iv.  331. 
Love  and  Death,  i.  72. 
Love  and  Duty,  i.  330. 
'  Love  thou  thy  Land,  with  Love 

far-brought,'  i.  243. 
Lucretius,  i.  511. 

Madeline,  i.  36. 

Margaret,  i.  87. 

Mariana,  i.  25. 

Mariana  in  the  South,  i.  29. 

Marriage  Morning,  i.  629. 

Maud;  a  Monodrama,  ii.  145. 

Mechanophilus,  v.  78. 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam,  iv.  488. 

Merlin  and  Vivien,  iii.  182. 

Milton,  i.  616. 

'  Mine  to  be  the  Strength  of  Spirit 

full  and  free,'  i.  105. 
Minnie  and  Winnie,  i.  592. 
Montenegro,  iv.  230, 
Moral,  i.  380. 
Morte  d'Arthur,  i.  256. 
'  Move  eastward,  happy  Earth,  and 

leave,'  i.  432. 
'  My  Life  is  full  of  Weary  Days," 

i.  loi. 


INDEX   OF  POEMS. 


565 


No  Answer,  i.  625. 

Northern    Farmer,    New   Style,   i, 

565- 
Northern    Farmer,    Old    Style,    i. 

559. 
Nothing  will  die,  i.  5. 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  i.  541. 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the 
International  Exhibition,  i.  541. 

Ode  to  Memory,  i.  48. 

OEnone,  i.  158. 

'  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the 
Heights,'  i.  241. 

On  a  Mourner,  i.  237. 

On  One  who  affected  an  Effemi- 
nate Manner,  iv.  509. 

On  the  Hill,  i.  620. 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria, 
iv.  405. 

Opening  of  the  Indian  and  Colo- 
nial Exhibition  by  the  Queen,  iv. 

395- 
Owd  Roa,  iv.  417. 

Parnassus,  iv.  501. 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre,  iii.  315. 

Poets  and  Critics,  v.  87. 

Poets  and  their  Bibliographies,  iv. 

398. 

Poland,  i.  108. 

Politics,  iv.  506, 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Brother's 
Sonnets,  iv.  379. 

Prefatory  Sonnet  to  the  '  Nine- 
teenth Century,'  iv.  228. 

Prologue  to  Day-Dream,  i.  368. 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley,  iv. 

357- 


Queen  Mary :  a  Drama,  v.  275. 

Recollections     of     the      Arabian 

Nights,  i.  41. 
Requiescat,  i.  586. 
Riflemen  Form  1  v.  81. 
Rizpah,  iv.  96. 
Romney's  Remorse,  iv.  494. 
Rosalind,  i.  91. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  i.  390, 

St.  Simeon  Stylites,  i.  304. 

St.  Telemachus,  v.  14. 

Sea  Dreams,  i.  497. 

Sir  Galahad,  i.  392. 

Sir  John  Franklin,  iv.  247. 

Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord  Cob- 
ham,  iv.  185. 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guine- 
vere, i.  426. 

Song,  i.  20. 

Song,  i.  54. 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the 
Iliad  in  Blank  Verse,  i.  618. 

Spring,  i.  624. 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Sec- 
ond-rate Sensitive  Mind,  i.  11. 

The  Ancient  Sage,  iv.  287. 
The  Answer,  i.  626. 
The  Arrival,  i.  374. 
The  Ballad  of  Oriana,  i.  73. 
The  Bandit's  Death,  v.  42. 
The  Beggar  Maid,  i.  430.  , 

The  Blackbird,  i.  228.  '^^^ 

The  Bridesmaid,  i.  113. 
The  Brook,  i.  454. 
The  Captain,  i.  414. 
The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade 
at  Balaclava,  iv.  359. 


566 


INDEX   OF  POEMS. 


The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade, 

»•  538. 

The  Church  Warden  and  the 
Curate,  v.  48. 

The  City  Child,  i.  591. 

The  Coming  of  Arthur,  iii.  4. 

The  Cup,  V.  103. 

The  Daisy,  i.  571. 

Tlie  Dawn,  v.  69. 

The  Day-Dream,  i.  368. 

The  Dead  Prophet,  iv.  370. 

The  Death  of  CEnone,  v.  7. 

The  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Clar- 
ence and  Avondale,  v.  100. 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year,  i.  230. 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow,  iv.   174. 

The  Departure,  i.  380. 

The  Deserted  House,  i.  65. 

The  Dreamer,  v.  75. 

The  Dying  Swan,  i.  67. 

The  Eagle,  i.  431. 

The  Epic,  i.  253. 

The  Falcon,  vi.  221. 

The  First  Quarrel,  iv,  85. 

The  Fleet,  iv.  393. 

The  Flight,  iv.  299. 

The  Flower,  i.  584. 

The  Foresters,  vi.  269. 

'  The  Form,  the  Form  alone  is 
eloquent! '  i.  no. 

The  Gardener's  Daughter;  or, 
the  Pictures,  i.  269. 

The  Golden  Year,  i.  335. 

The  Goose,  i.  250. 

The  Grandmother,  i.  549. 

The  Higher  Pantheism,  i.  601. 

The  Holy  Grail,  iii.  278. 

The  Human  Cry,  iv.  227. 

The  Islet,  i.  589. 

The  Kraken,  i.  19. 


The  Lady  of  Shalott,  i.  114. 
The  Last  Tournament,  iii.  340. 
The  Letter,  i.  624. 
The  Letters,  i.  434. 
The  Lord  of  Burleigh,  i.  417, 
The  Lotos-Eaters,  i.  204. 
Tlie  Lover's  Tale,  iv.  i. 
The  Making  of  Man,  v.  73. 
The  Marriage  of   Geraint,  iii.  85. 
The  May  Queen,  i.  191. 
The  Mermaid,  i.  81. 
The  Merman,  i.  79. 
The  Miller's  Daughter,  i.  145. 
The  Northern  Cobbler,  iv.  107. 
The  Oak,  iv.  512. 
The  Owl  —  Song,  i.  39. 
The  Owl —  Second  Song,  i.  40. 
The  Palace  of  Art,  i.  172. 
The  Passing  of  Arthur,  iii.  399. 
The  Play,  iv.  508. 
The  Poet,  i.  58. 
The  Poet's  Mind,  i.  61. 
The  Poet's  Song,  i.  453. 
[The  Princess;  a  Medley,'4j;_ij^ 
The  Progress  of  Spring,  iv.  482. 
The  Promise  of  May,  v.  163. 
The    Revenge:    a    Ballad    of   the 

Fleet,  iv.  121. 
The  Revival,  i.  376. 
The  Ring,  iv.  434. 
The  Roses  on  the  Terrace,  iv.  508. 
The  Sailor  Boy,  i.  587. 
The  Sea-Fairies,  i.  63. 
The  Silent  Voices,  v.  94. 
The  Sisters,  i.  169. 
The  Sisters,  iv.  132. 
The  Sleeping  Beauty,  i.  372. 
The  Sleeping  Palace,  i.  369. 
The  Snowdrop,  iv.  510. 
The  Spinster's  Sweet-Arts,  iv.  320. 


INDEX   OF  POEMS. 


567 


The  Spiteful  Letter,  i.  593. 

The  Talking  0<ik,  i.  314. 

The  Third  of  February,    1852,  ii. 

222. 
The  Throstle,  iv.  511. 
The  Tourney,  v.  83. 
The  Two  Greetings,  iv.  223. 
The  Two  Voices,  i.  122, 
The  Victim,  i.  596. 
The  Village  Wife;  or,  the  Entail, 

iv.  148. 
The  Vision  of  Sin,  i.  437. 
The  Voice  and  the  Peak,  i.  603. 
The  Voyage,  i.  421. 
The  Voyage  of  Maeldune,  iv.  209. 
The  Wanderer,  v.  85. 
The  Window ;  or,  the  Song  of  the 

Wrens,  i.  620. 
The  Wreck,  iv.  263. 
Tiresias,  iv.  254. 
Tithonus,  i.  343. 

To ,  i.  34. 

To ,  i.  103. 

To ,  i.  171. 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and 

Letters,  i.  448. 
To  Dante,  iv.  248. 
To  E.  Fitzgerald,  iv.  251. 
To    E.    L.,    on     his    Travels    in 

Greece,  i.  450. 
To   H.  R.  H.   Princess   Beatrice, 

iv.  392. 
To  J.  M.  K.,  i.  104. 
To  J.  S.,  i.  233. 
To  Mary  Boyle,  iv.  477. 
Tomorrow,  iv.  310. 
To  My  Grandson,  iv.  83. 


To  One  who  ran  dosvn  the  Eng- 
lish, iv.  509. 

To  Princess  Frederica  on  Her 
Marriage,  iv.  246. 

To  Professor  Jebb,  iv.  409. 

To  Sir  Walter  Scott,  v.  41. 

To  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  iv.  386. 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and 
Ava,  iv.  401. 

To  the  Master  of  Balliol,  v.  5. 

To  the  Queen,  i.  i. 

To  the  Queen,  iii.  419. 

To  the    Rev.    F.   D.    Maurice,   i. 

577- 
To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield,  iv. 

229, 
To  Ulysses,  iv.  473, 
To  Victor  Hugo,  iv.  231. 
To  Virgil,  iv.  367. 
To  W.  C.  Macready,  iv.  514. 

Ulysses,  i.  339. 

Vastness,  iv.  429. 

Wages,  i.  600. 

Walking  to  the  Mail,  i.  292. 

'  Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to 
take  the  Cast,"  i.  11 1. 

When,  i.  628. 

Will,  i.  580. 

Will  Waterproofs  Lyrical  Mono- 
logue, i.  398. 

Winter,  i.  623. 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho"  ill  at  ease, 
i.  239. 


INDEX     OF      FIRST      LINES      TO     THE 
POEMS   COMPRISING   "IN    MEMORIAM." 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave,  ii.  373. 
A  happy  lover  who  has  come,  ii.  294. 
And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form,  ii.  446. 
And  was  the  day  of  my  delight,  ii.  314. 
As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face,  ii.  369. 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low,  ii.  343. 
By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn,  ii.  401. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound,  ii.  298. 
Contemplate  all  this  work  of  time,  ii.  437. 
Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here,  ii.  376. 
Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour,  ii.  332. 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand,  ii.  293. 
Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire,  ii.  449. 
Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore,  ii.  378. 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat,  ii.  438. 
Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been,  ii.  357. 
Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead,  ii.  344. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore,  ii.  295. 
From  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools,  ii.  342. 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk,  ii.  426. 
He  past;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone  :  ii.  354- 
Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer,  ii.  323. 
He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind,  ii.  396. 
High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less,  ii.  430. 
How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead  ?  ii.  337- 
How  many  a  father  have  I  seen,  ii.  346. 
How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head,  ii.  400- 
569 


570  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

I  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought,  ii.  345. 

I  cannot  see  the  features  right,  ii.  364. 

I  climb  the  hill :  from  end  to  end,  ii.  411. 

I  dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more,  ii.  363. 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods,  ii.  317. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise,  ii.  375. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal,  ii.  398. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report,  ii.  301. 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime,  ii.  355. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one,  ii.  336. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born,  ii.  341. 

I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel :  ii.  296. 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings,  ii.  286. 

I  know  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track,  ii.  315. 

I  leave  thy  praises  unexpress'd,  ii.  369. 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell :  ii.  352. 

I  past  beside  the  reverend  walls,  ii.  389. 

I  shall  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say,  ii.  399. 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below,  ii.  310. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time,  ii.  435. 

I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin,  ii.  290. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born,  ii.  423. 

I  trust  I  have  not  wasted  breath  :  ii.  439. 

I  vex  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  :  ii.  335. 

I  wage  not  any  feud  with  Death,  ii.  337. 

I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind,  ii.  425. 

Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs,  ii.  299. 
Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King,  ii.  446. 

'  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,*  —  ii.  374. 
My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees ;  ii.  406. 
My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this,  ii.  325. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow,  ii.  434. 
Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut,  ii.  313. 

O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this,  ii.  436. 
Oh,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then,  ii.  441. 
Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good,  ii.  347. 
Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones,  ii.  331. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  571 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones,  ii.  287. 

O  living  will  that  shall  endure,  ii.  451. 

One  writes,  that  '  Other  friends  remain,'  ii.  290. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went,  ii.  416. 

O  Sorrow,  cruel  fellowship,  ii.  288. 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me,  ii.  353. 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm,  ii.  324. 

O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long,  ii.  452. 

Peace;  come  away:  the  song  of  woe,  ii.  351. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  ii.  421. 
Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again,  ii.  366. 
Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again,  ii.  410. 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun,  ii.  440. 
Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance,  ii.  365. 
'  So  careful  of  the  type  ?  '  —  but  no,  ii.  349. 
So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do,  ii.  368. 
Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way;  ii.  316. 
Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  ii.  283. 
Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air,  ii.  388. 
Sweet  soul  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt ;  ii.  359. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend,  ii.  371. 
Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees,  ii.  300. 
That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole,  ii.  340. 
That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless,  ii.  443. 
Tlie  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky,  ii.  338. 
The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down,  ii.  428. 
The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave,  ii.  308. 
The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said,  ii.  309. 
The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings,  ii.  448. 
The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go,  ii.  312. 
There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree,  ii.  442. 
The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ ;  ii.  318. 
The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ ;  ii.  419. 
The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole,  ii.  348. 
This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall,  ii,  382. 
Tho'  if  an  eye  that's  downward  cast,  ii.  356. 
Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join,  ii.  328. 


572  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a  breeze,  ii.  305. 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight,  ii.  427. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss,  ii.  334. 

Thy  voice  is  in  the  rolling  air ;  ii.  450. 

'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise;  ii.  431. 

'Tiswell;   'tis  something ;  we  may  stand,  ii.  306. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise,  ii.  303. 

To-night  ungather'd  let  us  leave,  ii.  420. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ;  ii.  289. 

Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway,  ii.  413. 
Urania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow :  ii.  329. 

We  leave  the  well-beloved  place,  ii.  414. 
We  ranging  down  this  lower  track,  ii.  339. 
Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung,  ii.  445. 
What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme,  ii.  372. 
What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me,  ii.  304. 
When  I  contemplate  all  alone,  ii.  379. 
When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head,  ii.  362. 
When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave,  ii.  322. 
When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls,  ii.  361. 
When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch,  ii.  397, 
Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     Who  shall  rail,  ii.  432. 
Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet,  ii.  392. 
Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor,  ii,  393. 
With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve,  ii.  319. 
With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave,  ii.  320. 
With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on,  ii.  330. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust,  ii.  326. 
Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven,  ii.  356. 
You  leave  us :  you  will  see  the  Rhine,  ii.  408. 
You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn,  ii.  405. 
You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ;  ii.  360. 


t/ 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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